


What's a Thief to a King?

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [21]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Snogging, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thief: someone who relieves you of that which is yours. King: someone to whom the burdens of an entire kingdom belong. Thief: someone who relieves others of that which was stolen from you. King: someone with the right to pardon a thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Yrsarald paced across the snowy steps in front of the Palace of the Kings, frowning, and occasionally blinking the snow out of his eyes. He jumped slightly when a black clad figure stepped out of the swirling snow, and pulled a fur hood back from his head.

Dyce smiled.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Ysarald said.

“I keep my promises. I just had other things to do first.”

“Is it true you captured a dragon in Dragonsreach?” He ushered the Breton towards the doors.

“Yes.” Dyce shrugged. “But I let him go again. I needed his help. Is the jarl expecting me?”

“Yes. He anticipates your Thu’um will be priceless on the battlefield, and your mere presence behind us priceless in court.” Yrsarald opened the doors and preceded Dyce through into the warmth of the great hall of the Palace of the Kings.

“But?” Dyce brushed the snow off his cloak and knocked it off his boots.

“I wasn’t at the peace talks at High Hrothgar, but he seems to think you’re a fool.”

“The only thing foolish about me was my attendance in the first place,” Dyce said with a scowl. “Well, he doesn’t have to like me personally. I’m not exactly enamoured of him after all. I was at the peace talks too, remember.”

Ulfric and Galmar were talking down the other end of the hall, and although Ulfric could see Dyce and Yrsarald, he didn’t break the conversation. Over the long table, thief and jarl regarded each other expressionlessly.

“Wait.” Yrsarald put his hand on Dyce’s shoulder. “It is good to see you again. And even if Ulfric isn’t sure about you, I am. You’re a hero. You’re the Dragonborn.”

“Maybe, but what is Ulfric?”

“He’s the rightful king of Skyrim.”

“We’ll see,” Dyce said softly. 

He’d been dreading this, but the mistakes he’d made in avoiding facing the Greybeards, and the lives that had been lost to dragons in the meantime, had convinced him that he had to be here. The war had to end, one way or another, and the peace talks had convinced him that words alone - even shouts - couldn’t break the deadlock. And all the while Elenwen smiled.

Part of him wanted to believe in Ulfric the way Yrsarald did, but he knew too much for blind faith. It was enough to to remain undecided about the man lounging on his throne, watching Dyce approach.

They were discussing Whiterun, and Balgruuf’s continued and unsustainable neutrality. 

“I’ll die before elves dictate the fates of men. Are we not one on this?” Galmar asked.

Ulfric’s voice rolled out across the room, “I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight because I must."

Dyce knew the speech was for his benefit and so he paused a polite distance from the throne and softly clapped his gloved hands together.

The two Nords regarded him silently, but Dyce fixed his attention on Ulfric. Equally irritated with everyone, he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to him at the peace talks, and this was the first time since that rather hazy morning at Helgen that he’d come face to face with the man.

He looked like a king. His beard and the hair at his temples was starting to grey, and his blue eyes were unreadable and tired. Burdened. He looked Dyce up and down, but what he thought of him, Dyce couldn’t say.

“Jarl Ulfric,” Dyce bowed his head and raised it again.

“Dragonborn. Yrsarald says you might finally take a side in this war. All of Skyrim has heard that a Dragonborn is among us again.” A slight pause. “If you fight for me with honour and integrity, as the stories say you do, we will welcome you among our ranks.”

“Mm. Did Yrsarald mention how much effort he had to put into convincing me to even be here?”

Ulfric smiled faintly, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “And what might I offer you, Dragonborn? Gold? A title?”

“Answers. You want me to fight? I will. I’ve been convinced I have to. You need to convince me you’re the one worth fighting for.”

“If you have questions, you may ask.”

“You might prefer they be asked in private,” Dyce said. 

Ulfric regarded him for a long moment and then indicated the side door with a tilt of his head. His generals obeyed the silent order.

“I have a war to run,” Galmar said as he left.

Dyce opened a pouch on his belt and produced a small booklet, bound in leather. He knew the contents by heart. He held it up.

“This-”

“Stop!” Ulfric stood, glaring down at the object in Dyce’s hand. Dyce obeyed, watching him intently. He clearly seemed to recognise the kind of document it was. “Follow me,” the jarl said eventually. “Even empty halls have ears. The Imperials have spies everywhere.” He turned without waiting for a response, and led Dyce to the private quarters of the Palace.

Unbeknownst to Ulfric, Dyce had been here before, but it wasn’t to the living quarters that Ulfric led him. Instead they ascended several flights of stairs, and Dyce’s feeling that they had to be above the height of the palace wall was confirmed when they exited a trapdoor into one of the watchtowers that lined the building.

The guard there saluted and retreated. There was nothing up here but howling wind, swirling snow, and a single brasier. Dyce huddled as close to it as he could without setting his fur cloak alight and pulled his hood up over his head. 

Ulfric didn’t seem to notice the cold. He stood with his hands on the stone coping, staring out at the icebergs floating in the sea beyond Windhelm harbour.

“I found this,” Dyce said. “And I want you to answer to it, to me, before I consider fighting your war.”

“You think I have to answer to you?”

“No. But I certainly don’t have to fight for you.” Dyce narrowed his eyes. “You think you know what’s in this. I think you might be wrong.”

Ulfric turned back to him and Dyce handed him the document. He warmed his hands over the glowing coals while Ulfric read. Dyce had to give him credit, Ulfric’s expression never changed; he made a mental note never to play cards with the man, should such a thing be likely.

He finished reading and closed the folio, holding it in both hands, carefully. 

“You say you found this. Where?”

“In the torture chamber beneath the Thalmor Embassy,” Dyce said promptly. Then he saw it. A flicker of a flinch, barely a blink, in Ulfric’s right eye. “And it makes sense to me. Does it make sense to you, Jarl Ulfric?”

Ulfric exhaled. “The city had already fallen,” he said, mostly to himself. He looked relieved. 

“What about the rest of it?” Dyce demanded. “‘Proven his worth as an asset’? ‘ _Direct Contact_? You’re a fucking Thalmor spy, and this war is your fault!”

Ulfric kept his temper, just. “You should use your words more carefully, Dragonborn. Your actions betray you; this.” He waved the dossier, “Would be an invaluable document to General Tullius, would it not? He would have the people of Skyrim who have not yet picked a side eating out of his hand. But you brought this to me here, instead.”

“It’s plain as the nose on your face that this war benefits the Thalmor more than anyone.”

“Yes,” Ulfric said. “To see Skyrim divided has always been their goal. But the war won’t last forever. And then they will have something to fear. Unless the Imperials win, of course, in which case their dominion will be complete.”

“How can you talk like that when you _helped_ them get where they are. How could you? All that guff about the men dying in your arms - they killed them! They tortured you-”

Ulfric turned and loomed over Dyce, and the Breton resisted the urge to take a step back. There wasn’t anywhere much to step _to_.

“You have no idea what that bitch did to me! What I endured.”

“Tell me then,” Dyce said. “I want to understand.”

“You have no right to ask.” Ulfric’s teeth flashed and Dyce could feel faintly the warmth of his breath on his face. You did not fuck with men like Ulfric lightly. His house symbol suited him; a snarling, shaggy old bear.

Maybe you could outwit him. Maybe your steel was sharper than his claws. But his eyes gleamed with cunning, and his strength was limitless, and he would fight until the last breath had left his lungs. His voice didn’t need Thu’um to change the world. 

Dyce refused to be cowed.

“I am the Dragonborn!” Dyce roared back. “And I have accepted what that means.” And it had hurt. “And when I say this war will end it will end! I slew the World Eater. I have the right. I earned it in Sovngarde!”

“And what was a Breton doing in Sovngarde?” Ulfric growled, turning away in disgust.

“I don’t know.” Dyce shrugged, “I don’t know, Jarl Ulfric. What difference does it make?”

“Skyrim is our homeland. It belongs to the Nords. Sovngarde-”

“Like hell! I have fought and killed and bled for-” Dyce broke off. “Huh. I didn’t come here to debate race politics with you, Ulfric. I came here to ask you if you were a damned traitor.”

Ulfric watched him through eyes narrowed against the cold and snow. “Well, things have changed since the peace conference.” He looked back out to sea. “I am not a traitor. Whatever is in here, is irrelevant now. I will see every Thalmor in Skyrim - in all of Tamriel - put to the sword.”

“Your hatred of the Thalmor is not in question,” Dyce said. “I’m concerned about potential vulnerabilities. Why did you do it, Ulfric? Why do they think they could make you do it again if they had to?”

“Things have changed since that was written,” he said. “I am no longer an asset. They know what kind of response they will get if they dare to try and contact me now; their messenger's head in a box.”

“Those are assurances, not an explanation,” Dyce said. 

“You would have all my secrets, Dragonborn? Are these scars not enough?” When Dyce didn’t answer he continued. “Say you are satisfied with my explanation; will you swear loyalty to me and our cause?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Dyce said. “If I didn’t think the Empire’s appeasement was nothing more than a doomed attempt to buy time I wouldn’t be here.”

Ulfric turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t like the Thalmor either,” Dyce pointed out. “I’ve seen what’s under the embassy. I rescued the unfortunate sods they had locked up in there.”

Ulfric actually looked impressed. “That explained Elenwen’s expression at the peace conference,” he murmured.

“I know what they’re trying to do. Talos is only the first step. I have a friend,” Dyce continued. “I rescued him. Underneath it all he was a really good mer. He was so lonely.” He looked up and met Ulfric’s gaze, “I’ll keep your secrets, my Jarl.”

“I believe you’d try. But there are no secrets they cannot prise from your mind. The harder you grip - I can’t even remember telling them, but they knew. They let me escape so I could see.” He was looking out at the snow, but Dyce was sure he couldn’t see it. 

“What did they know?” Dyce asked.

“You will swear your life to me,” Ulfric said. “Or I will take it. Please let this be enough. Not even Galmar knows.” He turned his head and looked at Dyce. 

Dyce set his jaw and raised his head, waiting.

Ulfric sighed. “So be it. I have a daughter.”

“Her mother did not want her raised as the daughter of a Jarl. She wanted to give her a choice, when she was older. Foolishly, I agreed. We saw her to a different city, somewhere safe. If I were to die in the war, the Stormcloak line would not end.”

“But she wasn’t safe.”

“No. I do not remember it, but I must have betrayed her. And for her, I betrayed Skyrim. But I never gave up. I vowed I would set things right again. They had her. They weren’t even threatening to kill her; they would have ‘educated’ her instead. A Thalmor puppet for a Stormcloak heir.”

“Where was she?”

“Markarth. A wealthy and protected city, but because of that I couldn’t try and rescue her without tipping my hand. But she was close enough to give me hope.”

“And then the Forsworn uprising.”

“I took Markarth back. I knew the Thalmor wanted the region disrupted, so the rivers of silver running into the Imperial coffers would dwindle for a while. So I used them and they used me and I’d hoped in the chaos of war I might snatch my daughter back.”

“But that clearly didn’t happen.”

“I couldn’t find her, but I learned something else. The Thalmor didn’t have her either. The family we’d left her with had snatched her back and hidden her somewhere in the city. She was just a tiny child, and easy to hide among others. I couldn’t ask where she was hidden; the Thalmor had got to them first, and they were all dead. None of the interrogators had the skills Elenwen did in keeping their prisoners alive.”

“After the uprising, the Thalmor installed a permanent presence in the city. To look for her, but also to keep me away. Keep me on their books as an ‘asset’ no matter how uncooperative. For twenty-five years I lived in fear that they’d find her. But I could afford to wait no longer; was I to die an old man, watching Skyrim forget Talos? I went to war. But always the thought of her held me back, as they knew it would.”

He looked at Dyce, “You did well to remove Elenwen from the peace talks. She would never have let Markarth fall into Stormcloak hands even if it cost her a dozen other holds. But she wasn’t there and she didn’t.” He ground his teeth, “And now I am free to scrub the Thalmor stain off the face of Skyrim. And you.” He turned to Dyce. “You are going to help.”

“Yes, Jarl Ulfric. I will fight for you,” Dyce said quietly.

Ulfric was still holding the dossier and with one swift movement he cast it into the flames of the braiser. Dyce didn’t make any effort to stop him or fish them out again.

“Get out of my sight,” Ulfric said. “Galmar will have a task for you and if you survive it you can take the oath.”

Dyce bowed his head, “Jarl Ulfric.” He lifted the trap door and descended the stairs, glad to be out of the cold. Certainly any potential eavesdroppers would have frozen to death.

The guard was sitting with his feet on a table and his helmet next to him when Dyce appeared. He hurriedly got to his feet.

“Should I get back to my post?” he asked, adjusting his helmet.

“I think it might be a good idea to wait until the jarl comes down first,” Dyce said.

Out of sight of the guard, Dyce leaned against the stone wall and shakily let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since he arrived. Please Divines, he thought, don’t ever make me have a conversation like that one ever again.

For better or worse, he was now going to war under the Stormcloak banner. And as for his commander, he honestly couldn’t say what he thought. But he didn’t think they’d be having too many fireside chats. Just end the war, and get out, he thought, as soon as he possibly could


	2. Chapter 2

Ulfric passed his hand over his eyes and almost hoped that whatever test Galmar set for the Dragonborn, he wouldn’t pass it. But as much as he wasn’t looking forward to meeting the Breton’s unwavering blue gaze again, Ulfric had paid his price for the Dragonborn and now he was damned if he wasn’t going to make him earn his keep.

He did return, and was duly sworn into the Stormcloaks. He looked grave and pale, but he cheered up a bit when Galmar explained about the crown. Ulfric wasn’t convinced, but while they waited for Balgruuf to make up his mind, it would be a good test for their new recruit.

Dyce, for his part, seemed relieved and even somewhat delighted by the idea.

“I’m always fetching things from tombs,” he said brightly. “This will be easy.” Ulfric was nonplussed by the response but couldn’t fault his enthusiasm. 

He was less impressed when the news came back that Dyce and the crown had been captured by Imperial forces, but almost as soon as the messenger had caught his breath a second one arrived to say Dyce had managed to escape with the crown.

Indeed he had, and he strode into the Palace of the Kings with it on his head, although at least he had the sense to hide it under his hood. Ulfric accepted the crown, and turned it over in his hands; he honestly had never expected it would still exist, and his heart quickened slightly to hold it.

A crown didn’t make a king, he knew, but still, it was something.

He put it aside and looked at Dyce.

“They told me you’d been captured.”

“I was. But not for long.”

“No Thalmor? They didn’t interrogate you?” Dyce was now the holder of too many secrets for comfort.

“The Imperials don’t like the Thalmor much more than you do. They didn’t have any with them. I was interrogated by one Legate Rikke,” he smirked. “Luckily I didn’t have anything useful to tell her. She was interested in troop movements and why would I pay attention to that stuff?”

“Rikke? She’s not a torturer. She’d never...” Ulfric trailed off.

In answer Dyce started undoing the catches on the strange, sleek armour he wore, and Ulfric could only stare as he revealed a lean, muscled chest and pale skin blotched with darkening bruises.

“To be fair,” Dyce said. “She seemed to prefer less crude methods, but bloody hell if she didn’t near break me in half anyway.” He straightened his back and winced.

Ulfric didn’t know if the squirming feeling in his gut was jealousy or despair. Rikke a torturer? He stared at the bruises that Dyce was gingerly prodding. He knew Dyce had no idea how lightly he’d got off, and he hoped he’d never know. No one should know. The intelligence was that Imperial forts now commonly had torture chambers; the influence of their golden-skinned allies.

“This war has to end,” he said. “Rest tonight. I’ll have more orders for you tomorrow.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

“Would you do your armour up? You look untidy.”

Yrsarald came in at the sound of voices and his concern for the bruised recruit was unfeigned. Dyce smiled at him with genuine affection and Ysarald herded him upstairs and told him he’d find some food. By this point the Jagged Crown had lost its novelty and Ulfric went upstairs himself to sleep before the sight of one of his generals playing nursemaid made him feel worse.  
The next morning, thankfully, Galmar had returned from the tomb, and was most approving of Ulfric’s new sense of purpose. 

“The peace treaty is no longer in effect. The matter of Whiterun must be settled one way or another; delaying it only needlessly prolongs this war.” When Ulfric handed Dyce his axe to get a final answer out of Balgruuf, the Breton looked deeply worried. But he didn’t argue. He bowed his head and strode out.

“What do you think?” Ulfric asked his old friend.

“Yrsarald seems to think highly of him.”

“I’d noticed.”

“He did kill the dragons. But his heart’s not in this war. He doesn’t think it’s his; he’s just obligated to fight it.”

“Maybe that will be enough.”

“Maybe. We’ll see how he goes on the battlefield. If his Thu’um is anything like yours, Jarl Ulfric, we will turn the tide.”

Dyce was gone for two weeks, and he returned empty-handed.

“I told you Balgruuf would come around,” he said to Galmar.

“Not so fast,” Dyce said sharply. “There are conditions attached to Balgruuf’s co-operation.”

“I told you to deliver an axe, not to open negotiations.” Ulfric never knew how much Balgruuf actively suspected about his contact with the Thalmor, but ever since the Great War, the other Jarl had barely tolerated him. Easy for him to say; he had his family safe under his own roof.

“I am a Thane of Whiterun,” Dyce said. “Balgruuf is both my friend and my Jarl. Besides.” He took a deep breath, “If we can’t provide Whiterun with what they ask for we won’t be able to persuade anyone else, either.”

He was so intense, this little Breton. Ulfric had missed it at the peace conference, but when he actually had something to say he said it clearly and forcefully, and left no doubt that he was behind every word he said. It was irritating in one way but refreshing in another, and Ulfric could picture him browbeating Balgruuf into letting him cage a dragon above his palace all too easily.

And now he was repaying the debt. It was a useful insight that Ulfric filed away for later.

“What would you have us do, Dragonborn?”

“Defend Whiterun. The Imperials don’t know that Balgruuf has given his answer, but once they do they’ll try and take Whiterun back. Prove we can hold Whiterun on the way to holding Skyrim!” He threw his words down like a challenge.

Ulfric glanced at Galmar. “Well?”

“If the choice is defending Whiterun or laying siege to her, I think we’d all prefer the former. Holding the plains won’t be as easy as holding the city, however. Inflict enough losses the Imperials’ll cut and run eventually. We need to show them they’re wasting their resources against us. That’s where the Dragonborn comes in. His Thu’um will send them packing with their tails between their legs.”

He could tell Galmar was champing at the bit to test his army in a full battle against the Imperials and it was time to see what Dyce was like on the battlefield.

“Very well. Mobilise our forces. Whiterun will be ours in two days.” Galmar left to start giving orders, but Ulfric called Dyce back. “Balgruuf would have sided with the Imperials?”

“He has no love for the Thalmor, but he believed the Imperials were the only ones capable of defending his city. He trusted I could prove otherwise.”

“Hm.” Ulfric dismissed Dyce and he hurried off with that strangely noiseless tread of his.

~~~  
The battle for Whiterun lasted two days, but in the end the Imperials cut their losses, as Galmar had predicted, and the news that the Stormcloaks had struck the first decisive blow crossed the country as fast as men could ride.

The title of Ice-Veins was bestowed on Dyce for his part in the battle. He didn’t take it well.

“What?” He laughed. “Wait, are you serious? Um, my name is Dyce, I’m quite happy with it, really.”

“Just go with it,” Yrsarald prompted him.

“But. I don’t have icy veins. People say I’m hot-headed. I mean, um, thanks. It’s an honour. Although know I do want to know why you guys call him Thrice-Pierced-”

At this point Yrsarald hauled him off and Ulfric could hear him laughing delightedly from the hall.

“He already knows, doesn’t he?” Galmar said. “He wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t.”

Ulfric really didn’t want to think about it. “How did he fight?”

“He hired a dark elf to watch his back.”

“I never took him for a coward.”

“He didn’t shirk the fighting. He was going through the motions the first day, but he got the hang of it.”

“So it’s worth putting up with him for now.”

“I don’t think he realises what he’s capable of, but he will. You did well to get him on our side. I’d hate to face him in battle.”

Ulfric didn’t say anything, but he wondered if the smiling Breton might someday be a rod for his own back. Still, the man couldn’t be immune to a dagger in the ribs if it came to that.

When Ulfric retired to sleep that night, one image stayed with him, of Dyce, jaw set, eyes flashing, demanding that Balgruuf’s city be defended. That was loyalty, pure and unwavering. And what could he do to earn that?

“You don’t let Argonians inside the city walls?” Dyce asked incredulously. “But it’s freezing out there. Admittedly it’s equally cold in here, but still.”

“No, I don’t,” Ulfric said flatly. “Isn’t it enough that I have a colony of elves within my walls? Or would you tell me how to run my city?”

Dyce shifted his jaw, clearly trying to work out what kind of answer he could get away with. “No,” he said eventually. He turned and marched back out again. 

Ulfric found Windhelm was soon practically infested with the man. If he wasn’t running around in the early hours of the morning with Jorlief solving mysteries, or whatever it was they couldn’t shut up about, he was dragging Yrsarald off to go drinking.

The war progressed as wars often do, in fits and starts. Wars were won not merely against the enemy but against weather, and logistics, and Dyce clearly was incapable of sitting still for two minutes at a stretch. Not that he was always causing trouble. He tracked down dragons and bandits, and when Jorlief eventually explained what had been happening in Windhelm’s streets at night Ulfric realised he had every reason to be grateful.

And when Galmar sent him off to war he went, and more often than not came back victorious. They named him Bone-Breaker and Dyce just shrugged and laughed helplessly. 

Galmar liked him. Even when he came in with a split lip and a black eye and Rolff Stone-Fist’s blood on his knuckles for the third time Galmar didn’t seem to take it personally.

“Tell your idiot brother,” Dyce said wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That if he wants to still have teeth by Yuletide to stop shouting at the elves.”

“I think you’re telling him pretty clearly,” Galmar said, watching him spit and wince.

“Yes, but he’s not listening to me. It’s like he completely forgets who I am, and he sees a puny Breton he thinks he can beat up. On the other hand I am making a fortune, but no one but Rolff himself bets against me anymore.”

Dyce may have been making a fortune, but he certainly wasn’t keeping it. After Dyce helped liberate a good many Stormcloak soldiers from an Imperial fort, Ulfric decided to reward some of his hard work by making him Thane. He was getting so well known that half the guards had started assuming he _was_ Thane already. There was some risk involved by publicly supporting someone who opposed him openly on political matters, but Ulfric knew that once he worked out how to acquire Dyce’s true loyalty, Skyrim would be his.

But Dyce always floated just out of reach, even as he made friends with everyone he met. Except possibly Rolff.

“You will be allowed to purchase property in Windhelm,” Ulfric explained. 

“Yeah, Balgruuf made the same offer,” Dyce said. “I couldn’t afford it though. He wanted five thousand gold for a little house. How much is Hjerim going for?”

“Twelve thousand,” Jorlief said faintly.

Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose at Dyce’s expression. “I take it you’ve never managed to earn that much in your life.”

“Oh, I’ve earned ten times that amount, surely. I just don’t have it on me.”

“How much do you have?” Ulfric asked, out of sheer curiosity.

“Oh. Um.” Dyce patted down his pockets and weighed pouches of gold and counted gems and did sums. “About two thousand. Not bad.”

“Perhaps you could make a deposit now and pay the rest back whenever you have the money.”

“My Lord?” Jorlief looked at him with surprise. “Is that wise? It’s not usual-”

Ulfric shrugged. “It’s just sitting there empty. If nothing else Dyce can prevent it becoming a hideout for the next murderer. What do you think, Dyce?”

“I think that’s very fair of you. Here you go.” He handed over all his valuables to Jorlief and wandered out.

“But it’s empty right now,” Jorlief said. “He can’t live there. Can he?”

Ulfric shrugged. Oddly enough, Dyce did manage to get furniture and objects for his house, but he never explained where they came from. Ulfric wisely decided it wasn’t his business.

“So he’s an Imperial,” Dyce was explaining to Yrsarald. “But he was raised by Nords in the true Nord fashion. It’s actually a bit of a mystery, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

“Uh huh. Does he want to join the Stormcloaks?”

“I don’t know.” Dyce winked, “You should ask him.”

“Look, I know you mean well, but I really don’t need a date-”

“Can you just please tell him I’m here? I don’t want him to go home. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go on.”

Yrsarald relented, shaking his head.

“Perhaps you should concentrate less on matchmaking and more on strategy,” Galmar suggested.

“Be honest,” Dyce said. “Which would you prefer to be doing, matchmaking or strategy?”

“Strategy!”

“Well that’s great,” he grinned. “You handle the strategy and I’ll handle the matchmaking and everyone’s happy. Anyway, here are the reports, have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Well, he got you there,” Ulfric observed, as Galmar tried to marshal some defence to Dyce’s logic, all far, far too late. 

Galmar didn’t have time to argue about it, as he was making last minute decisions before he left to begin the next offensive. Yrsarald returned several hours later, grinning and slightly drunk and he had to confess Dyce hadn’t stayed very long and he didn’t know where he was.

When a guard eventually reported that Dyce was at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, Ulfric wasn’t entirely surprised. His Thane clearly loved slumming, even by the standards of Bretons, and was often seen sitting around the fire with the Khajiit who sometimes camped outside the city walls. 

“Well, go and tell him he’s needed here,” Ulfric said.

The guard returned alone. Ulfric sighed, “Well, let’s hear it.”

“He said uh, that if you wanted to talk to him, that uh, you’re welcome to join him. At the New Gnisis Cornerclub...” the guard trailed off.

“Right. Dismissed. I’ll deal with him and his doubtlessly massive hangover tomorrow morning.” Ulfric looked out down the hall. Galmar had gone, and Yrsarald had stumbled to bed. Jorlief was sitting at the table, looking tired and dutiful. It was very quiet. “Go to bed, Jorlief,” Ulfric said, rising from his throne. “We all need rest.”

He felt old as he ascended the stairs to the sleeping quarters. His palace was full of old men, he realised. Save for Dyce. He took off his armour and fur and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

“It’s my city,” he murmured. “Why the hell not, if _he_ can?”


	3. Chapter 3

Still, he was not remotely foolish enough to put his robes of office back on. He found some nondescript clothes in the closet and a long fur cape and hood, the latter he pulled down low over his face. How many of the Dark Elves might recognise him he had no idea. It was better to keep a low profile.

Ulfric heard Yrsarald snoring in his room as he hurried past, and the guards nodded at him as he left the Palace of the Kings for the swirling snow and dark night outside. For a few moments he stood there, feeling the cold pinch at his face and burrowing his bare hands deeper under his cloak. It was very late. Guards were patrolling, and a drunk was singing badly somewhere, but otherwise the city was quiet. 

It grew less so as he ventured into the muck of the Grey Quarter. People were still awake here; he could hear conversations behind closed doors and out in front of the New Gnisis Cornerclub, from which spilled light and conversation and the smell of strange cooking, several Dark Elves were lounging around despite the cold. 

Ulfric ducked his head and pulled his cloak close as he stomped past them, vowing to make them regret it if they started something. They didn’t. They watched him go past with mild interest and returned to their conversations.

It was not like a normal inn in here. For a start the air was thick with smoke, and the kind of cooking smells that made Ulfric’s eyes water. No one was singing, or fighting. There was a lot of noise though; intense conversations, the clatter of wooden or bone dice across the tables, and the clink and scrape of glasses and chairs. Everyone was in constant motion; once a point of conversation had been concluded half the participants stood up and went to different tables to start the next one.

They didn’t give Ulfric a wide berth simply because there wasn’t room, but he was watched by a dozen or more red, oval eyes as he made his way slowly around the room, looking for Dyce.

He found him sitting at the bar downing Cyrodilic brandy and telling unlikely stories to a pair of elves, one of whom was playing with his hair. Ulfric got the satisfaction of making Dyce’s jaw drop when he pulled back the free stool next to him and sat on it. Dyce shut his mouth and grinned. 

“Well if isn’t my old friend, uh, Griz.” He draped an arm around Ulfric’s shoulders. “We’re old hunting buddies,” he explained. Ulfric found himself the recipient of knowing, amused looks.

To hell with it then. If he was going to be undercover, he may as well put some effort in.

He wrapped an arm around Dyce’s waist and pulled him sharply against him and the Breton nearly fell off his stool. Dyce’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement; he didn’t seem to _mind_ any, although Ulfric realised his cloak and hood were far too warm for a crowded bar.

“Are you here for a drink or just a cuddle?” he asked. 

Ulfric pointed at the bar in front of him with his free hand. Gratifyingly fast, the Dark Elf behind the bar slid across a ceramic tumbler of brandy, and it went almost as well as mead did. Dyce suggested he leave the bottle and given no money was in evidence Ulfric deduced he was a regular customer. 

“I was really not expecting you to show up,” Dyce said, pouring himself a drink with the exaggerated carefulness of someone who’s been drinking most of the evening. “You should meet some people. Everyone, this is Griz, and he’s shy.”

Ulfric did not like the sound of elves laughing at him, and he had another drink. He wondered if Dyce kept his arm around his shoulders in case he tried to do something. However, the elves soon lost interest in him; he was bad conversation, but vouched for, and so he was basically ignored. At that point Dyce unwound his arm and rested his elbow on the bar instead.

Ulfric didn’t move his arm. That leather was something else. It invited stroking. Ulfric caught his hand moving against Dyce’s side a couple of times and stilled it. He probably couldn’t feel anything. Dyce was warm. Ulfric could feel him shudder when he laughed. Ulfric drank and let the noise wash over him.

Talos, what was he doing here?

“Are you hungry?” Dyce turned to him. “I am. Food! Ambarys! Feed us!”

Ulfric found himself staring at bowl of what looked like jellied egg yolks. Steam was rising gently from them. Dyce was sprinkling salt over his, spoon in hand.

“What are these?” Ulfric asked.

“Kwama cuttle,” Dyce said, slurping one off his spoon. “House speciality.”

Talos, what _was_ he doing here?

Ulfric was not a fearful man. He unwound his arm from around Dyce and copied him by sprinkling salt over the dish. Then he braced himself, picked up a spoon, and dug in. He managed to eat about half of it as fast as he could before pushing the bowl away.

“I already ate,” he said. He poured himself another drink, while Dyce smirked at him. 

“Well, you tried. I’m proud of you.” Dyce ate all of his cuttle and the half a bowl Ulfric had been unable to stomach. “If you’re looking for an acquired taste, try the scrib jelly,” Dyce said. “Still can’t get the taste for that.”

“Why would you care to?” Ulfric asked.

“Why not?” Dyce asked. “The more things you like the richer and more varied your banquets. It works for sex, too,” he added casually.

Ulfric choked on his brandy.

Dyce yawned, apparently sated. “Well, I suppose I should get some rest. I’m sure someone important will want me to do something tomorrow.” He stood up and started bidding people goodnight. Ulfric followed, although he said not a word to anyone.

The cold air outside the Cornerclub was like a slap in the face. Dyce shivered and tucked his hands under his arms before starting to tromp back through the dirty snow up the slope towards Windhelm proper. 

Ulfric wasted no time following. It was depressing down here, now they were out of the warm, and he was tired and a bit drunk.

He wasn’t the only one, up ahead he could hear shouting and he spied a familiar figure stumbling down the street towards them.

“Spies! You’re all...filthy Imperial spies. Come out’n fight! Like Nords!” 

“Rolff,” Dyce growled. “How many times have I gotta-”

Ulfric put his hand on Dyce’s shoulder. Dyce waited as Ulfric pushed his hood off his head.

“Rolff,” he said. “Rolff Stone-Fist, do you recognise me?”

Rolff frowned, “Yeah. You’re...you’re th’ Jarl. Whatt’re you doin’ here?”

“You’re making a nuisance of yourself. Go home and sober up.”

“Yesh, yesh my Jarl,” Rolff made an attempt to salute and reeled away.

“And stop causing trouble!” Ulfric called after him. In a lower tone he added to Dyce, “Let’s see if he takes any more notice of me than he does of you.”

Dyce was smiling at him.

“What?” Ulfric pulled his hood back over his head. “This is my city. I should keep down the troublemakers.”

Dyce chuckled indulgently and they strode on in companionable silence.

“Why do you like them so much?” Ulfric asked eventually. “The elves.”

“They’re sarcastic,” Dyce said. “It’s hilarious. Most of them are into pretty kinky stuff; one of them showed me part of Vivec’s Lessons once. I was speechless. Nice voices. Nice people. Divines know I wouldn’t put up with it if I was treated the way they were.”

“They don’t have to put up with it; they’re welcome to leave,” Ulfric said.

“Could you just for one minute imagine what it’s like for them?” Dyce waved his arms. “For someone who wants to be king, you _suck_ at identifying potential allies.”

“And for a blow-in from Highrock you claim to know an awful lot about governing Nords. Nords are my people; they are who I fight and if need be will die for. Not elves.”

“What if the Dragonborn had been an elf?” Dyce asked.

“Bretons practically are elves,” Ulfric huffed irritably.

Dyce looked thoughtful, in a drunk sort of way. “I suppose there’s hope for you yet then.” He gave Ulfric a crooked smile, “I’ll tell them what you did, you know. About Rolff.”

Ulfric didn’t know what to say about that. He certainly didn’t feel grateful. It didn’t matter, as Dyce patted him on the shoulder as he walked past him towards Hjerim without waiting for a response. It was only once he’d gone, and Ulfric was halfway up the steps to the Palace of Kings, that he realised he hadn’t actually passed on the orders he’d originally summoned Dyce to receive. 

Tomorrow then.

Only tomorrow was in no hurry to arrive. Ulfric lay under his furs, eyes shut, but every time he tried to relax the sound of the Cornerclub seemed to echo in his ears. It was maddening, and the more he tried to block it out the worse it got. Eventually he gave up and went with it, going back there in his mind, the taste of brandy still in his mouth. 

Dyce’s leather under his fingers.

This time he was free to stroke, to slide his hand down Dyce’s ribs. He felt his cock stir, the familiar sensation of his blood quickening in his veins. He didn’t move, not yet. Behind his eyelids, Dyce turned to him, affectionate, obedient. Ulfric licked his lower lip and heaved a sigh, concentrating. The sounds of the Cornerclub finally faded as he concentrated on Dyce, making him real, remembering his freckles, the size of his hands.

From there he was obliged to imagine, to guess, as he peeled away the leather. He wasn’t in the Cornerclub now, but his own bed, Dyce pliant and eager. Have him taste like brandy. Have him lean and hard. Have him hot.

Ulfric was hard now, he could feel the weight of the furs pushing his cock against his stomach. He shifted, moving his hips, feeling the sheet slide against his skin, a wrinkle catching on the end of his erection. Not comfortable, he slid a hand down his chest and stomach, his blunt fingers barely registering the scars as he concentrated on pretending it wasn’t his hand. Dyce cupped his balls, weighing them, thoughtful then pleased, and encircled the base of Ulfric’s cock with his finger and thumb. 

Ulfric slowly stroked up his length and squeezed the head of his cock, imagining Dyce on his knees, sucking and squeezing, looking up at him with big, adoring eyes even as his cheeks hollowed and spit ran down his chin. Like that, taste it. All of it.

Ulfric rolled onto his side in an attempt to keep the sheets clean; he was leaking over his fingers and achingly hard. How long had he wanted to give himself permission to do this? To even think this. He stroked himself slowly, brow furrowed in concentration as he had Dyce straddle his lap, then lie back against his tangled sheets. Tame, willing, welcoming.

He’d fucking chain him to the bedpost if he had to, Ulfric thought, moving his hand faster, have him demonstrate all the things the Dark Elves taught him. He’d watch him come, _make_ him come. Ulfric bit back a groan. He indulged in a random assortment of fantasies, chasing his own orgasm. He drove his hips up against his own hand and with a frustrated grunt released him cock long enough to throw off the furs; despite the fact that the fire had gone out long ago he was too hot under the covers.

The cool air raised goosebumps on his arms and legs, but it was a relief nonetheless. He could smell his own hormones. He rolled onto his back again, and resumed stroking himself, his other hand clenched around a fistful of the country’s finest tundra cotton as he dug his fingers into the sheet.

It wasn’t enough to imagine his cock in Dyce’s mouth, he put words in it, made those lips that smiled so easily say his name.

Say it: my Jarl.

Say it: my king.

He shuddered and he nearly arched free of the bed. He could feel his orgasm building as Dyce bent and bowed and fucked and sucked. But it wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t quite him. Ulfric moved his hand faster and flung his free arm across his face, panting. Nearly there.

A memory interrupted the fantasy then. Dyce’s worshipful expression dissolved and Ulfric found himself remembering Dyce’s spirited defence on behalf of Whiterun. There was the man himself, in full flight, determined and looking him right in the eye. Intense and right _there-_

Ulfric gasped and curled his knees up and shuddered as he jetted his seed into his fist, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his breath squeezed from his lungs. He hung there for a few seconds and then he breathed again.

With a groan he relaxed and waited until he caught his breath. He felt irritated with himself, but he had to admit, he’d probably needed it. He opened his fingers and felt around on his nightstand for a cloth to clean himself up. Now his heartbeat was slowing it was getting uncomfortably cold, and he wasted no time piling the furs back on. 

He was more than ready to sleep now. He felt foolish and uneasy. He hoped he’d gotten Dyce out of his system and out of his head, but he couldn’t help but suspect opening the door a crack would only let him further in.


	4. Chapter 4

“My Thane, you need to wake up. My Thane?”

“Uhurgh. Call me Dyce. Then go away.”

“Yes, my Th- I mean Dyce. You still have to get up. Should I make you some breakfast?”

Dyce lifted his head from the pillow and blinked blearily at Calder. “Why the fuck do I have to get up at all? Is a dragon attacking the stables again?”

“No, Jarl Ulfric sent you your orders. The Stormcloaks are going to take the Rift.”

Dyce let his head fall back down onto the pillow again. “I can’t. I’m busy.”

“I’ll heat some water, my Thane,” Calder said, straightening up.

“Pleh.” Dyce waited until Calder’s footsteps faded away and he sat up, holding his head in his hands. He needed to cut back; otherwise he’d just be inviting another visit from Sam. But spending the evenings at the Cornerclub seemed to hold off the inevitable a bit longer than going to bed early did.

They were sending him to war. Again. 

Dyce picked through his memories of the previous night and frowned. Had Ulfric really shown up at the Cornerclub? And then told off Rolff for shouting at elves? It all seemed a bit unlikely in the cold light of morning. He still didn’t know what to make of Ulfric, and he was too hungover to consider it further. He sighed and rolled out of bed before Calder came back up to drag him out.

He hated it. The war. The fact there were always casualties on both sides, no matter how hard or how recklessly he fought. He’d had to be rescued more than once because of his desire to kill the enemy before they killed his friends. The enemy. But they weren’t his enemies. He lived in constant fear that he’d run into Hadvar again. 

What would he do if he did?

He was learning how it worked; how large groups of troops moved and fought. He no longer feared what he didn’t know about war. He was marked by now; they knew him and attacked and feared him in equal measure. They changed their strategy around where he showed up.

“The Rift, huh?” He shook his head, “Maven’s not gonna like it if we knock her off the throne.” He supposed it was partly his fault they’d lost the Rift in the first place, but he now knew why Ulfric hadn’t said a murmur against how the peace conference had turned out. 

He heard Calder’s footsteps on the stairs. Time get up and go.

~~~  
“So far, so good,” Dyce breathed into Ralof’s ear.

They were hanging, quite precariously, inside a well. This well was inside the Imperial held Fort of Greenwall. Back when the Stormcloaks had held it, they’d made note of the fact that the well was accessible from a nearby cave, and infiltrators could use it to enter the fort undetected and open the gates from the inside. 

Now they were testing this theory.

All seemed quiet. Above them the aurora glowed in a clear, cold sky. They could hear the Imperials patrolling the walls. With no moon it was hard to work out exactly where they were, but they were equally well hidden. Galmar had picked this night specifically for that reason.

“You’re better at this sneaking around than I am,” Ralof whispered. “You get the gate and I’ll watch your back.”

Dyce nodded, and waited not a moment longer before vaulting out of the well and landing silently, crouched and still. Nothing. With no more noise that the flutter of a lunar moth he drifted across the courtyard towards the heavy gates, barred against the Stormcloaks. As soon as they opened, he knew, Galmar and the other troops would flood in before the Imperials had time to react.

That was the plan. 

As soon as Dyce touched the gate with his gloved hand, someone shouted and every brasier in the fort flared to life as a dozen hands put them to the torch. Within the ring of fire, Dyce and Ralof were easy targets for the Imperial archers lining the walls.

The commander dropped his hand, and the arrows flew before Dyce’s horrified gaze.

_TIID KLO UL_

Dyce swam against the currents of time, knocking aside the arrows that drifted lazily towards him, and watching in horror as one of the missiles found its mark, with agonising slowness, in Ralof’s chest. Dyce gritted his teeth and stretched out his hand, his fingers wrapping around the feathered end and yanking it back with a spray of blood that floated like rubies in the still air. 

He wrapped an arm around Ralof’s chest and tackled him back into the well. Only when he was in freefall did he remember that time hadn’t slowed quite as much for him, and he helplessly fell past Ralof, and landed in the cave below in six inches of water.

The echoes of the Shout died away, and time rushed to fill the gap. Dyce had no time to brace himself before two hundred pounds of Nord and his armour landed on his back. Dyce spluttered and struggled, the air knocked out of him, while his mind was aghast and incredulous at the fact that the Dragonborn might drown in half a foot of water.

He heaved himself upwards and rolled Ralof off his back. He could hear the imperials shouting above and he yelped and grabbed Ralof’s arm as the Nord struggled to rise, hauling him out of the way as the Imperials poured the flaming contents of a brasier down the well.

Steam rose and hissed as the two Stormcloaks staggered free. Ralof stumbled and Dyce steadied him.

“Are you alright?” Dyce shouted over the hiss of steam.

Ralof coughed and winced and touched his bloodied chest. “I think something hit me, what happened? ...Hurts like hell.”

To Dyce’s horror he could see flecks of blood on Ralof’s lips.

He didn’t have time to say anything. A splash from the well alerted them to the danger, and Dyce had notched an arrow within seconds. As soon as he saw a shape through the dissipating steam he let it fly.

Ralof drew his sword.

“Get out!” Dyce snarled. “I’ll hold them off.” He notched another arrow. Ralof nodded and staggered away. He coughed and again and leaned on the wall for support. Dyce dared not take his eyes off the well. His arrow had found its mark and an Imperial soldier was now visible, crumpled against the wall. “I got plenty more arrows!” he shouted.

Then he relaxed the string and hurried over to Ralof.

“Come on,” he said. “Drink this.” He pulled a potion from his belt and Ralof gamely tried to swallow it, and almost immediately coughed half of it back up, and no small amount of blood.

“All right, put your arm around me.” Dyce ducked under Ralof’s arm and hauled them both in the direction of the exit, splashing through knee-deep water and every few seconds glancing back over his shoulder to see if the Imperials had decided to risk his arrows yet.

“Dyce.”

“Don’t talk, we’re nearly outside,” he lied.

“If you see Hadvar, tell him I forgive him.” Ralof smiled bloodily, “We’ll meet again in Sovngarde.”

“Shut up!”

Ralof did so, and his weight became deadweight and he slid into the water. Dyce spent a few panicked seconds working out that Ralof wasn’t yet dead, then he bent his back and heaved the Nord over his shoulder. Or tried to. His foot slipped in the water and he nearly fell, catching himself on the rocky wall. He could barely stand, let alone take a step. He set Ralof down again.

“Right.” He tossed Ralof’s sword and shield, and his bow and quiver of arrows joined them.Thus marginally lighter, Dyce heaved his comrade over his shoulder again, and with one hand on the wall, started walking. One step at a time. Feeling his way on the water-slick stone so he didn’t slip and fall. A twisted ankle was just what he didn’t need.

“Why the hell,” Dyce said through gritted teeth. “Do they make them so big?” He didn’t know if he was talking about Nords in general or merely their caves. Surely it hadn’t been this long walking in. His back felt like it was threatening to break. If there’d been a side passage he’d missed, he was going to cry.

He nearly cried anyway when he saw the faint glow of starlight ahead of him.

Bent nearly in double, he hefted Ralof a bit higher on his shoulder and doggedly plodded on. The bruises he’d acquired when Ralof fell on him ached fiercely. The pain kept him going.

He didn’t have the breath to shout when he approached the Stormcloak hiding place, but he didn’t have to. Their scouts saw him and soon Ralof was being lifted off his shoulders. Once he was free of the weight, Dyce fell to his knees, his breath rasping in his throat. A soldier dragged him to his feet, and they stumbled back to the camp.

“Are you injured?” Galmar asked, coming out of the command tent to meet them.

“I”ll live,” Dyce said. “So will he.” He refused to believe anything else. 

He looked at Galmar. “They knew about the well.”

“Then we’ll just have to do things the hard way,” he said. “Have the healer look at you, and I’ll plan an attack.”

“Wait,” Dyce said. “I have a plan.”

Galmar nodded to show he was listening.

“Give me a horn. Take our forces back into the well. I’ll take care of the fort. When you hear the horn, then you can mop up.”

“You’re going to assault the fort on your own?” Galmar asked.

Dyce shook his head, damp strands of hair hanging before his bloodshot eyes. “Not alone.”

The sun rose over the Rift, glowing white on the low lying fog that hung over the hot springs in the nearby valleys. The birds had only just begun their morning chorus when the Imperial sentries noticed Dyce making his way towards the gates of the Fort. Just out of range of their arrows he halted, and bared his teeth. 

The birds were silenced as a call that echoed off the near mountains.

_OD AH VIING_

Dyce extended a gloved hand towards the fort as the morning sun flashed red off the drake’s gleaming scales, and the dragon’s shriek pierced the heavens.

“Sic ‘em.”

~~~  
“And Ralof?”

“His lung needs to recover. The last time I saw him he was raring to get back into the fight. A week or two, the healers say.”

Ulfric nodded. “I see. Without Fort Greenwall to protect Riften, Maven will have to accept that she cannot hold the city herself. I can afford to be diplomatic, for now. You’ve done well, Dragonborn.”

“Jarl Ulfric,” Dyce raised his head. “I don’t think I want a new nickname this time.”

“Very well. Dismissed, Dragonborn.”

Dyce didn’t go far. He expected Ulfric would want to see him again quite soon, so he parked himself in one of the upstairs rooms, waved at a guard so they’d know he was there, and propped his elbows on a stone windowsill and watched the snow piling up against the leadlight glass.

Ralof was going to be all right, he reminded himself. This time. They shouldn’t have assumed the Imperials hadn’t investigated the well the way the Stormcloaks had when they’d held the fort. Dyce knew it was pointless going over it now, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about it. 

He fought alone. He always did. He was quiet and quick, and charging into battle screaming at the top of one’s lungs was nothing more than a shortcut to Sovngarde, as far as he was concerned. But that’s what they wanted him to do. That’s what they needed him to do. The fact that the Dragonborn now fought under Stormcloak colours had seen the number of recruits joining the Stormcloak cause rise sharply.

They were fighting because he was. Nords and their bloody hero worship. There was no doubt that some of these people were going to die. And if it hadn’t been for Dyce they wouldn’t have fought in the first place. And he’d thought fighting Alduin had been an unbearable responsibility. The end of the world had been an abstract thing; he’d fought for Tamriel as a concept, and against the dragons as an immediate and present danger. 

His actions saved people. In war it was the opposite; you worked to put people in harm’s way. It went against every instinct he had.

He realised something had changed about the window he stared out of. Dyce narrowed his eyes to focus on the faint reflection of the room behind him in the glass, the reflection that was now almost entirely obscured by a large, Nord-shaped silhouette.

“What didn’t Galmar put in his report, Dyce?”

“Nothing he actually knew, Jarl Ulfric,” Dyce said. “I’m sure his report is accurate.”

“As far as it goes,” Ulfric said. “You are going to tell me what happened.”

Dyce turned his head slightly. “Do you have any rooms without ears?”

Dyce was obliged to put his cloak and gloves back on, and he and Ulfric paced the battlements of the Palace of Kings, on the sheltered side, looking along the snow clad valley in the general direction of Whiterun. Above them low hanging clouds, thick and round with promises of snow, scudded endlessly off the sea.

“Galmar says only that you assaulted an entire fort and by the time they received the signal the only Imperial troops left alive were inside the fortress itself.”

“I won’t keep secrets from you. I called a dragon to do my dirty work,” Dyce said, looking out over the stonework. The wind pulled strands of red hair from his ponytail and whipped them against his cheek.

“Your Thu’um commands the dragons?” Ulfric hadn’t mentioned Dyce’s Voice directly before. Dyce glanced at him quickly before answering, but his face gave nothing away.

“Not exactly. An individual dragon has sworn himself to my service. I call his name and he comes; I presume he could decide not to. I don’t compel him.”

Ulfric frowned. “What did you do to earn the loyalty of a dragon?”

“I defeated him in combat and then I killed his king,” Dyce said matter-of-factly.

“To have dragon on the battlefield-”

“No,” Dyce said sharply. “Aside from the fact that we might not want to associate ourselves with dragons, I don’t think Odahviing is very good at telling one mortal from another. I suspect our casualties would be almost as high as the enemy’s.

“Odahviing,’ Ulfric said softly.

“Don’t try it,” Dyce said. “He doesn’t owe you anything.”

“I’m aware,” Ulfric said coldly.

They strode on in silence, chins and eyebrows raised, each on the point of saying something, until they reached the guard tower and were obliged to turn and retrace their footsteps. It was freezing out here, and Dyce was cursing himself for not wearing a hood, pulling his hair down around his ears as best he could. 

Ulfric weathered the snow and wind like the mountains, stoic and unchanging. Only occasionally did he brush melting snow out of his eyes.

“What’s it like,” Ulfric asked. “To feed on a dragon’s soul?”

“It’s not feeding. There’s no choice. It makes me feel feverish and hungover. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“And the words?”

“It’s like, a gemstone. Cold and hard.” Dyce held out his hand and a few snowflakes settled on his glove. “It’s yours. You can hold it. But it’s not part of you.” He dropped his hand. “It’s not part of me I recognise, anyway.”

They walked on.

“I know you think it should have been you,” Dyce continued. “I can see the logic.”

Ulfric narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

“Isn’t it enough to be Jarl? To Shout with your own Voice, not something you stole from a dragon? You might be High King someday, which is more than I’ll ever be.”

“Your predecessor became Emperor,” Ulfric pointed out. “And then a god.”

“So?” Dyce scowled. “Why did you go to High Hrothgar? I can’t imagine the pace suited you.”

Ulfric was silent for a while. “I was scared.”

“What?”

“I always knew I was destined to do something great for Skyrim. I had responsibilities; at the very least I would be Jarl. But I needed a sign, some reassurance. Some sense that I was capable of handling the power that came with my bloodline, capable of handling the destiny I felt sure was waiting for me. I went to High Hrothgar to get it.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. Of course I did. They don’t let just anyone inside, but they recognised the potential in me, even as a boy. I would have stayed there until I was ready to be Jarl, but the war got in the way.”

Dyce regarded Ulfric with narrowed eyes, “I can’t really picture you following the Way of the Voice.”

“You know a secret of mine, Dyce. You forget that is _all_ you know.”

“You like it,” Dyce said. “The fact that you can make history. That what you do changes things.”

“I told you, I was scared of it.”

“You got over that pretty quickly.”

“Yes, and then the Thalmor showed me just how much I could change history, and how little choice I had in the matter. I should have remained scared.”

Dyce stopped, and Ulfric met his gaze calmly.

“It’s a terrible responsibility,” Dyce said. “There aren’t words to explain it to someone who hasn’t lived it.”

“And you were not prepared for it the way I was. Part of me is glad you exist; that I don’t have to carry Skyrim’s burdens alone.”

He was lonely, Dyce realised. But he could find nothing in Ulfric’s bleak expression or his eyes to suggest he wanted it any other way. It was like he was looking at him across a gaping chasm. That’s what separates a king from everyone else, he thought. Or it was something someone who wanted to be king badly enough did as a matter of course. 

Maybe it was for the best. Ulfric was too hard to read, too calculated. He’d lived a double life for too long, and maybe if he hadn’t known that Dyce would have thought he could see the whole man in front of him.

“It’s a lonely business,” Dyce said. “The only thing that makes it worthwhile are all the people you meet on the way.”

Ulfric frowned, “Like Yrsarald?”

“Yeah.”

“Ralof? Calder? Those elves? The Khajiit?”

“Yes? It’s not like people who are worth hanging out with are a limited resource.” Dyce shivered, “I’m getting cold out here. If you want to talk about Khajiit I don’t really care if the Imperials overhear.” He walked past Ulfric and after a few moments he heard him following him back inside. Dyce hurried to the nearest brasier to warm his hands.

“Dyce.”

Dyce looked at Ulfric. His face was underlit by the flames, which threw into relief the lines and scars on his face, and lit the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. Ulfric wasn’t looking at him, but at the glowing charcoal, and Dyce let himself stare. The snow on Ulfric’s furs started to melt, giving him a slightly bedraggled look.

Of the two of them, both scoring their marks into the history books, Ulfric most looked the part.

“Leave Riften to me. I will send another messenger.”

“What would you have me do instead, Jarl Ulfric?”

“Nothing. It will take weeks at least to stabilize the Rift and move our forces into position for the next offensive.” Ulfric flicked his gaze up to meet Dyce’s. “So go and feed Ralof chicken soup, or talk to your Khajiits for a while.” 

He turned to go.

“What did Galmar say in his report about me?” Dyce asked, uneasy about Ulfric’s sudden change of attitude. He hadn’t expected empathy from such an unlikely quarter.

“Nothing.” Ulfric smiled faintly, “But it’s not like you to be so easy to sneak up on.”

Dyce frowned, listening to Ulfric’s boots on the stairs as he descended. Just how long had Ulfric been standing there while Dyce had watched the snow? And what the hell had he been doing?

“Staring at my arse, probably,” Dyce muttered.

Dyce realised, then, that he’d underestimated Ulfric some. As he’d been trying to get the measure of the Jarl, Ulfric had been doing the same for him. It was by no means an understanding, but it was something, and Dyce was only too happy to disappear for a while, to steal things for the guild or track down the caravans for any news on Ondolemar - the mer had become somewhat famous among the Khajiits, passed from one caravan to the next like some kind of decorative but only mildly useful ornament.

Forget the war as best he could while Ralof got back on his feet again. 

When Ulfric sent for Dyce next, he was back in Windhelm within two days.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone knocked on the door. Dyce looked up from his breakfast and noticed the door to the privy was shut. 

“I’ll get it!” he called. He still was unnerved by having someone wait on him without complaint, and he was determined not to be the sort of thane who expected his housecarl to interrupt his business just to answer the door.

He regretted this action soon enough. Calder kept his house wonderfully warm, and Dyce had all but forgotten the constant chill outside. Which meant opening his front door without a shirt on was more than a little bit painful.

Ulfric watched in bemusement as Dyce tried to pretend he didn’t feel the cold.

“Good morning, Jarl Ulfric. This is a surprise,” he said, his jaw clenched so his teeth wouldn’t chatter. They weren’t due to move out again for a few days, surely. And even if they were, what was he doing collecting Dyce personally? Dyce tried manfully not to shiver for a few moments, then realised both his goosebumps and his nipples were giving him away. “Oh, just come inside, would you?” He ushered Ulfric in.

Ulfric looked around with interest at Dyce’s mismatched furniture, and the various odds and ends that Calder was forever trying to arrange in a manner that didn’t make the place look like a pawn shop.

Dyce sat back down to his fried eggs. 

“So um, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He was not going to offer him Calder’s share of breakfast.

“I want to test our Thu’um,” Ulfric said. “The Greybeards did test you, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they got me to Shout at them, and they Shouted at me. Is this going to be a performance, Ulfric?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Just you and I.”

They rode north of Windhelm, to the flat open area that overlooked the Palace of the Kings. Their horses’ hooves kicked up a spray of the ankle-deep snow. More would probably fall later, but for now the air was clear, and unusually still. The tops of the mountains were shrouded, as always, in cloud, and their breath steamed in front of their faces. 

“This will do,” Ulfric declared. They left the horses behind them, not wanting to frighten the creatures into bolting.

“Why exactly are we doing this?” Dyce asked, as they walked through the snow.

“The battle for Solitude is coming,” Ulfric said. “This will be no mere skirmish. I will lead our forces personally, and I want to feel your Thu’um now, before the battle. I want to hear the voice of the Dragonborn.”

“Kinky,” Dyce said. 

Ulfric didn’t dignify that with an answer. 

“I think it’s more than that,” Dyce continued. “You want to test me. You want to know if your Thu’um can beat mine if you need it to.”

“Can you blame me?” Ulfric asked.

“Not really.”

They stood facing each other about ten feet apart. Ulfric inclined his head, “After you, Dragonborn.”

_FUS!_

Dyce grinned as Ulfric struggled to stay on his feet in the cloud of snow his Shout had raised. Ulfric snapped his head up, and Dyce caught his eyes blazing briefly.

_FUS RO DAH!_

Dyce was knocked right off his feet, and ploughed a six foot long trench in the snow. He tumbled and scrambled upright as fast as he could, before Ulfric could Shout again. 

_FUS_

Breathe. Don’t let him catch his breath.

_FUS RO DAH_

This time it was Ulfric’s turn to tumble in the snow. Dyce grinned, scrambling to his feet, and casting aside his bow and quiver of arrows; if he was going to roll around, they’d risk being snapped.

And roll he did, for the next time Ulfric Shouted, Dyce was ready for him, and dived out of the way, shaking the snow out of his hair and Shouting back. 

For raw power, Dyce could not be matched. Even using all three words, Ulfric could do no more than send him skidding away across the snow. When Dyce managed to hit Ulfric, however, the Nord was sent flying, landing feet away in a puff of snow and scrabbling for purchase. But Ulfric had control; Dyce’s Shouts took all the air out of his lungs, and he had to wait to Shout again. Ulfric needed to wait only half as long, a fact he cannily hid from Dyce until he got a clear shot at him in an unguarded moment and faceplanted him into the snow.

The pristine blanket of snow was scuffed and trampled and churned as they circled each other. Dyce grinned like a maniac; this was far more fun than when the Greybeards did it, while Ulfric was concentrating on his breathing, allowing only brief, satisfied smiles when he managed to make the thief tumble.

“Give up?” Dyce called, his hands on his knees.

“Hardly. I think-” Ulfric broke off as a shriek echoed down from the nearby mountains.

Dyce and Ulfric exchanged a glance and waited to see if the sound would be repeated. They didn’t have to wait long. With a scream of challenge, and with the sun gleaming off its bronze scales, an elder dragon wound its way out of the clouds still hanging around the peaks.

“I suppose we were making a lot of noise,” Ulfric said. He drew his axe, and watched the dragon approach.

It circled them once, and Dyce could tell it was confused to have heard two voices Shouting below, but was keen to challenge them both, arrogant in its age and power. It opened its massive jaws and great gout of frost poured from between its gleaming teeth. The two men turned and ran, kicking up a spray of snow with every footstep. 

Ulfric Shouted, battering the dragon slightly, while Dyce looked around urgently. The dragon circled around for another attack. Dyce took a deep breath and Shouted it off-course, the force of his Thu’um sending it out of control briefly before it unfolded its wings and stabilized.

“Shit shit shit shit.” Dyce cast about, kicking at the snow as they ran again from the dragon’s icy breath.

“What are you doing?” Ulfric yelled.

Dyce shook his head, somehow finding the breath to wheeze out a laugh. “I can’t find my bow. We made too much of a mess.”

“Bloody hell. Shout then! Burn it or something. We can’t run forever.” The horses had long gone.

Dyce stopped running. Ulfric stopped too, staring at him. 

“I can bring it down,” Dyce said. He drew his blades, and watched the dragon circle around. Ulfric looked from him to the dragon and back again, standing his ground, but ready to leap out of the way.

_JOOR ZAH FRUL_

Dyce and Ulfric ducked as the dragon lost control of its flight and with a scream of mental anguish crashed into the ground. Grounded, it thrashed about, turning to face them, screaming frost into their faces. They split up, ducking under the flailing wings and the wickedly barbed tail.

Ulfric showed no fear, Shouting defiance, his axe biting into the creature’s hide. Dyce caught a wing across the midsection and drove both his blades into the tough membrane, letting it carry him off his feet and crawling up onto the creature, working his way towards its body, blade by blade as it tried to fling him off.

Ulfric raised his axe, his feet skidding on the ground as he did his best to absorb a swipe by the dragon’s claws. Dyce risked standing up long enough to hurl himself towards the dragon’s back as it turned its head and reached back to snap at his heels.

The dragon heaved, and thrashed, and screamed its superiority as it once again forgot what it was to die. Dyce gritted his teeth and hung on as it hurled itself into the sky. Dragonrend still burning in his throat, he couldn’t cough up the words again just yet. The dragon whirled and climbed, trying to throw him off. Dyce ignored the way the sharp scales dug into him through his armour and hung on. Peering over the dragon’s shoulder he could see Ulfric, just a moving speck in a mass of churned snow.

An arrow sailed past Dyce’s nose. Ulfric had found his bow. He wasn’t likely to hit anything though; shooting dragons in flight took a lot of practice-

The dragon whipped its head up, and Dyce caught a glimpse of fletching protruding from under its jaw. Ignoring Dyce for now, it turned and dived down towards Ulfric, and Dyce could feel its rib cage expand as it took a deep breath.

Ulfric was running, his fur cloak and his blonde hair the only thing moving in the landscape below Dyce as they streamed out behind him. The dragon opened its jaws, its neck extended.

_FUS RO DAH!_

Dyce aimed his force at the back of the dragons head, and its neck snapped down, caught on the ground, and then the whole creature somersaulted over its own head. Dyce covered his head with his arms and tried to leap free as the ground raced up to meet him. 

The air was knocked out of his lungs as he hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. He hoped the huge crunching sound he heard was the dragon landing, and not his neck snapping. He struggled to work out which way was up and where his limbs had got to when something seized his bicep and hauled him in a direction that turned out to be upright.

His nose was bleeding; the gore half-frozen to his face. 

Ulfric met his gaze for a moment and Dyce nodded. 

The dragon was still alive, thrashing itself upright, roaring in rage. Ulfric raised his axe and charged the creature, Dyce at his heels. Disoriented and broken, the dragon screamed and bled, but could not rise again, and eventually groaned and lay still.

Ulfric put his axe through the back of its head, just to make sure. 

They stood over the dragon’s body, breathing hard. Dyce wiped the blood off his face onto the back of his hand. Ulfric, stood next to its head, staring at the creature, trying to drink in his victory, savour it. He was damp with sweat and melted snow, his armour scuffed and scratched, and his hair tangled.

“Shame no one was here to see it,” Dyce said.

Ulfric shrugged, and then he grinned. His teeth gleamed against his beard and his eyes were alight with adrenaline and rush of victory. He tossed his axe with one hand and caught it before hanging it off his belt.

Dyce folded his arms and looked him up and down and couldn’t stop himself smiling. “Right now,” he said. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” He meant every word.

Ulfric looked him in the eye. With sudden determination he stepped forward towards the Breton and Dyce waited, a smile hovering around his lips as Ulfric raised a gloved hand towards his face.

Ulfric faltered. Dyce bent his head and gritted his teeth as the dragon’s corpse blazed with light. He shuddered, filled once again with ancient spirit that made his own quail for a few moments. When he looked up again Ulfric was merely impassive, watching the process intently his arms folded.

Whatever he’d been about to do, he’d since decided against it.

It looked like they’d be obliged to walk back to Whiterun, and Ulfric handed back Dyce’s bow and arrows, before they started plodding down the slope.

“So who do you think won?” Dyce asked. “After our little contest.”

Ulfric glanced over his shoulder briefly, “Well it wasn’t the dragon.”

Dyce laughed, and didn’t press Ulfric for a real answer.

“That Shout you used on the dragon,” Ulfric said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“Dragonrend,” Dyce said somberly. “I’ll tell you the whole story, if you like.”

And he did so, once they returned to Windhelm, and separated long enough to find clean, dry clothes. They sat in the palace kitchen, near the fire, drinking mead and eating slices of fried horker loaf.

“So they didn’t make you follow the Way of the Voice.”

“They tried to convince me it might be a good idea,” Dyce said. “But a Dragonborn isn’t bound by the rules. They didn’t want me to learn Dragonrend, however.” Dyce sighed. “They didn’t even _know_ it, but I got my ear chewed for half an hour anyway about how I shouldn’t learn it. Paarthurnax had to persuade them.”

“Paarthurnax,” Ulfric said. “It always frustrated me that I never got to meet him. I’d actually decided he no longer existed; that the Greybeards simply didn’t want to choose a new leader. I mean, how could someone possibly live up there anyway? I never saw them taking food up.”

“He does exist, I can assure you of that.”

“Paarthurnax. Such a strange name. Almost like-” He broke off. Looked up from the fire and over at Dyce, eyebrows raised. “Is he?”

Dyce nodded.

“What’s he like?”

“Like a Greybeard, but a better conversationalist.”

“To think, all this time and nobody knew.” Ulfric mused. 

“How old were you when you went up to High Hrothgar?” Dyce asked curiously.

“Eight years old,” Ulfric replied. “I didn’t spend all my time up there; I was expected to learn the arts of war so in the summers I came down to train.”

“That must have been tedious,” Dyce said. “Would have been even worse than the temple.”

“You were raised in a temple?”

“Yeah, Temple of Dibella. I was a foundling.” Dyce took a swig of mead.

Ulfric stared at him intently, “What was it like?”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. It was just dull. Prayers, cleaning, lessons, and the biannual Parade of the Cute Little Orphans Through the Wealthy Districts to Encourage Donations.” He grinned wickedly, “I was really good that. I used to bring back so many sweets I’d make myself sick.”

“Did you ever wonder who your parents were?”

“Oh, sometimes. ‘Parents’ were an abstract concept to me. You can’t miss what you’ve never had.”

Ulfric hung his head, “I see. Did you resent them for abandoning you?’

“Nah, they probably had their reasons. Most of the other orphans there had parents who were dead - I figured mine were as well.” Dyce looked at Ulfric, “I turned out alright. If they’re still alive, I’d be happy to see them, you know, get to know them. I wouldn’t be angry.”

Ulfric nodded. “When the war is over, I’ll set things right.”

“When the war is over.”

“I’ve felt the power of your Shout. We’re going to win.”

“You’d never doubted you were going to win, with or without me.”

Ulfric looked a little rueful, “No, the trick is to make people think you never doubt.”

Dyce exhaled, “Do you ever let yourself react without thought to the political consequences?”

“Sometimes.”

They looked at each other, and Dyce thought back over the day that had passed. “I suppose that’s true,” he said softly. “You should try it more often.”

“Why?” His voice was sharp, wary.

“Oh, Divines help me. If you don’t see the value of it, I can’t help you.”

“Did I ask for help?”

“You see my Thu’um, but you don’t see past it, Ulfric.” He couldn’t understand why Ulfric didn’t trust him; when Ulfric looked at him Dyce got the impression there was something he wanted to see, but couldn’t. “I’m tired.”

Ulfric merely nodded, and Dyce left him staring at the fire.


	6. Chapter 6

_...fucking gorgeous._

The words burned through Ulfric’s fantasies now. He’d nearly given in, nearly forgotten everything about them both other than their physical existence, just a breath apart. But the dragon’s soul. He couldn’t forget that Dyce was potentially his greatest enemy. He couldn’t forget the power of his Thu’um. 

Forced to trust him with his secret, Dyce had honoured his request for silence, but Ulfric couldn’t grab hold of him. Always he looked beyond the war, but not in the same way Ulfric did. He refused to be cowed, refused to be bound; he chose, always, chose to obey when he did, chose to disobey when he didn’t. It was increasingly clear to Ulfric that he’d chosen who was going to win this war, also.

Ulfric thought he understood power and the kind of man who wields it, but in some ways Dyce was as frustrating as the Greybeards had been. Held back, interested in other things, unconcerned by the vagaries of politics and willing to shout and bare his teeth to fight against being forced to be any other way.

And what did Dyce concern himself with? Matchmaking and food. Sarcasm and petty theft. Sex. Talos, Ulfric knew he could ask and Dyce would agree. And the knowledge drove him mad.

_Fucking gorgeous._

How could you take something like that at face value? _No one_ would speak to a potential king like that and mean only what he said, surely. What could you trust about a man like that? Where was the certainty? Ulfric didn’t even know what he was risking, what vulnerabilities he’d opened up. When he was vulnerable Skyrim and her people suffered, that’s all there was to it.

They were riding on Solitude. His troops stretched out behind him on the road, under Galmar’s watchful eye. Sometimes they were greeted with cheers and flowers and sometimes with barred doors and windows. But they had nothing to fear now; Skyrim was all but theirs, the Imperial forces pushed back to the northernmost edge. 

He’d had Dyce ride with him, at the head of his army, and at first he’d been good company, if unreliable. Half the time he fell back to talk to people he recognised and tell jokes and flirt. As they tracked north, up through the Reach - no, they didn’t stop at Markarth; Ulfric averted his gaze and kept going, at this late stage he would not betray himself - Dyce grew quieter, and more withdrawn. 

Eventually, they camped within sight of Solitude’s walls, the Blue Palace remote and peaceful over its stone arch, the harbour glittering blue and white. When Ulfric had last been here, he had defeated a king. 

Galmar had his maps and his strategies, the troops were organised and briefed as the sun sank towards the horizon. Tomorrow they would take Solitude or die trying. The Imperials would know they were there, so they built their fires high, and the hills rang with the songs of battle. 

Ulfric and his generals met in the command tent. Three Nords, one Breton. Ulfric would not have imagined Dyce would stand with them like this when he’d first sworn himself to Ulfric’s service, but Galmar had seen him grow into the role of a leader of men. When called upon to do so, he ran into battle screaming at the top of his lungs.

“We won’t need to lay siege on the palace,” Ulfric said. “It will be enough to take the fort, and see Tullius defeated.”

“What about Elsif?” Yrsarald asked.

“She is not a fool, and she will not order her people to fight to the death. She will be treated fairly.”

Dyce didn’t say a word throughout the proceedings, he merely stared at the map of the city spread in front of them. When their strategy was agreed on, they left to get some food. Ulfric remained, staring at the map by candlelight, listening to the voices of the men and women at his command outside.

He blew out the candle and was about to leave the tent when he heard Ralof speak.

“Dyce, you’ve been there and come back. Tell us about Sovngarde?”

A hush fell over the gathering, and Ulfric could hear clearly the crackle of the fire. He found himself holding his breath.

“I’m no bard,” Dyce said. “But I’ll do my best.” 

Ulfric drifted forward, but stayed within the tent, not wanting to impose his presence on the gathering. He watched as Dyce was given mead and the soldiers simultaneously tried to give him space and lean in closer.

“I arrived at the end of a valley,” Dyce began. “There was mist everywhere; I could barely see my hand in front of my face, but that was Alduin’s doing. When he died, it cleared. The sky was...alight. I could see stars but, the light was different. It was like the aurora but a thousand times brighter, like daylight. And there was a stream there...” 

It was like hearing someone describing a dream, rather than a real place. Dyce was no bard, as he had said, and he’d often remember a detail he’d forgotten and go back and add it. He spoke of Shor’s Hall, and the ancient heroes he met within. No one else spoke, everyone seemed to be barely breathing.

Ancient names rolled of Dyce’s lips; Jurgen Windcaller, Ysgramor, and Olaf One-Eye. Dyce did his best to describe them, but to him they were just men. Just Nords. Like all of them. Ulfric’s heart ached. He knew, like all Nords knew, that Sovngarde awaited him, and at times in his life he had wished desperately for it, but it had never felt so real to him as when a Breton stumbled over his words, inadequately trying to describe it.

All the stirring speeches in the world couldn’t compete with the simple truth.

Dyce didn’t talk about Alduin. Ralof had asked for Sovngarde after all, and Ulfric knew every soldier there was considering the possibility he would be seeing for himself what Dyce had described before the next sundown.

He spoke of the food, of the singing and sparring, and of the welcome he’d received. Ulfric hung his head; he had not been made so welcome in his own hall, after all. He could only hope, after all the things he’d done, all the friends he’d betrayed, when his time came he would be judged fit to enter those halls. 

Eventually, Dyce ran out of things to say. He shrugged, as if to say he’d done his best. Some people left then, and Ulfric knew the story would be throughout the camp by tomorrow morning, and within a month would be retold across Skyrim. It would become part of the tale of the coming battle; whichever side would win, all would know that the Stormcloaks carried a vision of Sovngarde in their hearts, and fought alongside the only man who had seen it and returned.

Ulfric looked up and realised Dyce was watching him. Ralof leaned over and said something and Dyce shrugged and smiled. They got to their feet, bidding the others goodnight.

Ulfric stepped out of the tent, “Dragonborn, I would speak with you.” He didn’t want him to go just yet.

Dyce nodded and joined Ulfric in the command tent.

“I didn’t break any Nordic traditions by talking about Sovngarde, did I?”

“We’re Nords. Our culture is made of stories. You should feel proud that you’ve added to them. You will not be forgotten.” 

He shrugged, “The Dragonborn will not be forgotten. But ‘Dyce’? I’d rather be remembered by people who knew me.” He paused. “I saw High King Torygg in Sovngarde.”

Ulfric did not miss that Dyce had omitted this detail from the story earlier, but he didn’t know how to thank him for it. “I’m glad. The boy behaved honourably and bravely until the last.”

“You had to know he didn’t stand a chance, no matter what rules of combat you adhered to.”

Loyal one moment, insolent the next. As always. And as always Ulfric felt himself being drawn into it. “Of course I did. What would you have me say? I regret killing a good man, I do not regret starting this war.”

Dyce’s shoulders dropped and he sighed, “I wish you hadn’t. We’re going to lay siege to a city tomorrow. Not a fort. People live there. Old men. Children. I’ve bought spiced wine from the markets there, I’ve gotten terribly drunk at their Burning Man Festival or whatever it was. I’ve wasted entire afternoons and countless arrows trying to shoot eagles over the harbour. It’s a _city_ not a bloody battlefield.”

Ulfric stepped up to him and placed his hands on his shoulders and Dyce looked up into his eyes, startled.

“I know you are not a man of war,” Ulfric said. “You play the part well because you must. Let me play my part now; trust me to lead you to Solitude. I am your jarl, and someday I may be your king.”

Dyce smiled crookedly at him, “I don’t really know what it is to have a king. I never really saw the need for them.”

Ulfric dropped his hands. “Why don’t I have your loyalty?” he muttered.

“How have I possibly been disloyal?” Dyce asked sharply.

“I’ve seen what your loyalty looks like. When you defended Whiterun for Balgruuf-”

“You think I wouldn’t do the same for you?” Dyce asked, looking genuinely puzzled. “Do you really think I bow and scrape around him? Or listen in respectful silence? I treat him the way I treat you. Like I treat anyone. Well, maybe there’s a slight difference.” 

That smile was hovering around his mouth again. Ulfric was beginning to recognise it; exasperation maybe. Maybe something else.

“What’s the difference?” Ulfric asked. He knew. He _knew_. Which was why he didn’t step back when Dyce pushed himself away from the table and gazed up into his eyes. 

_Fucking gorgeous._

He put his hand on Dyce’s shoulder, and leaned down.

“Jarl Ulfric.” Dyce faltered, and the smile faded. He ducked his head and slipped away from between him and the table. “Look, you’re right. You’re sending me to lay siege to a city tomorrow. I need you to be my Jarl, right now.” He looked so regretful, scared of what was to come, and what he would expected to do. “And, well, I have somewhere else I have to be tonight. I am sorry.” 

He ducked his head and darted out, without waiting for a response or dismissal. 

Ulfric exhaled slowly. He had misjudged him again. They never seemed to want the same things at the same time. The more he reached out for him, the further he slipped away. And yet, he’d needed him. He’d come right out and said it. It was hard to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

“What did Jarl Ulfric want? Or aren’t I allowed to ask?”

“I’m not sure even Jarl Ulfric knows that,” Dyce said, ducking his head as he entered Ralof’s tent. Ralof was sitting on his bedroll, dressed only in a pair of pants. Dyce started peeling off his armour.

“Surely he needs the counsel of his great General Stormblade,” Ralof said.

“I swear,” Dyce said, shrugging out of his coat, “if you use that name one more time I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

Ralof laughed, and covered his face with one hand. It was a strange laugh. The last chuckles sounded more like a sob before dying away to silence. Dyce crawled over and sat beside him.

“He’ll be in Solitude,” Ralof said. “He was one of the troops assigned to General Tullius, after all.”

Dyce wrapped an arm around his shoulders, but didn’t say anything.

“I just wish he could have heard what you said, about Sovngarde. It’s not so bad, if we meet in battle, but what if it’s Helgen all over again? What if I’m reading the damn list?”

“Ralof.” Dyce moved over him, sitting astride his knees and pulling his hand away from his face. “I don’t know what happens tomorrow, but I know this; trust Ulfric. He’s not going to make you read a list. He’s not going to execute Nords like Hadvar.”

Ralof looked at him and nodded. “You’re right. Of course you are. If I didn’t believe in Ulfric, I wouldn’t be here. Neither would you.”

Dyce nodded. Tonight he needed Ulfric to be his Jarl, to be someone to believe in. Dyce now knew what that meant, and it didn’t suit him to use someone like that. But the war needed winning, and he trusted Ulfric understood that most of all.

“That’s why he’ll be a king,” Dyce said softly. Smiled. “And I’d be a lousy emperor.” 

“What?” Ralof was looking at him with a puzzled expression. “You wouldn’t execute people. You’d be a fine emperor.” 

“Huh. You’re just angling for a spot in my harem.” 

Ralof grinned and wrapped his arms around him, falling back onto the bedroll and pulling Dyce with him. “Maybe.” They shuffled around, making getting inside the bedroll many times more complicated than it needed to be, and Dyce sprawled on Ralof’s warm, broad chest.

“Talos, I just realised.”

“What?”

“All those great heroes. If I go to Sovngarde, what do I _say_?”

“Well, I led with ‘hello, who are you?’”

“And a saucy wink as well, no doubt.”

“Hey,” Dyce propped himself up on his elbows. “I had other things on my mind.” His gaze dropped to the livid red scar, still fresh, on Ralof’s chest. Dyce touched it gently.

Ralof covered his hand with his own. “Dyce,” he smiled kindly. “I can’t tell you how many free drinks I’m going to get with that. So don’t look so concerned.” 

Ralof’s hand moved to cup Dyce’s cheek, and Dyce leaned upwards and kissed him. They ground against each other, not hurried, savouring the warm space they’d created in the fleeces, letting their blood stir at its own pace. 

Ralof ran his hands down Dyce’s back, slipping his blunt fingers under the his pants and palming his arse while Dyce worked his way along Ralof’s jaw, his fingers tangling in his blonde hair. They hummed and purred, and Dyce knew where Ralof was ticklish and he tickled him until the Nord pinned his arms and rolled them over. 

Ralof got him back by pressing hard kisses to his face, rubbing his stubble across Dyce’s nose while he squirmed and chuckled. He worked a hand free of Ralof’s grip and snuck it down the Nord’s pants and ran his fingers through the curls until Ralof angled his hips up and Dyce relented and squeezed his handsome cock.

They stroked each other and put off the dawn with kisses both deep and teasing and whispered jokes and rolled eyes. They came quietly, unable to put it off any longer, open mouthed and shuddering. So tired from their days on the road, they slept pressed right against each other, with barely room to breathe, let alone move. But they wrapped their arms firmly around each other and wouldn’t have dreamed of separating.

Dyce didn’t dream of Sovngarde. He dreamt of a crown.

~~~  
Dawn broke over the world, and the Stormcloak army, from hardened warriors to farmer’s daughters, from silver-haired battle maidens to boys barely growing stubble, rose and sharpened the weapons and said their prayers. Ulfric and his generals were awake early, riding through the ranks, reminding the troops what they were fighting for, and who they would be fighting with. 

“The barricades are going to be a problem,” Galmar said, as they met again at the head of the column. “We’ve got a battering ram for the gate, but while we’re getting it up there the archers are going to make mincemeat of our troops.”

“The Dragonborn and I can take care of them,” Ulfric said. “Our Thu’um is strong enough to sweep them aside over the cliff.”

“My Jarl,” Galmar said. “Is that the wisest strategy? You’ll be vulnerable out there.”

“Somewhat,” Ulfric said with a faint smile. “Our archers will provide cover, but every offensive has its risks. Solitude is a city built strategically for defense. We’ll have to fight for every foot of ground once we get inside.”

Galmar looked at Dyce, perhaps hoping he’d disagree with Ulfric’s plan, but he merely nodded. “I’m game.”

“So be it,” Galmar said. “I will have your back, Jarl Ulfric.”

“I always knew you would.” 

“I think I’d like a shield,” Dyce said mildly. The others chuckled and Dyce was offered a large selection from the troops as his request was passed down. 

“It’s an honour, Stormblade.” The shield he eventually selected belonged to a tall woman with a long blond plait wrapped around her head.

“Please tell me you have a spare,” Dyce said, adjusting it on his arm, and frowning.

They started marching early, when the morning sun would be in the eyes of the defending archers, and it glittered off the weapons of the troops massing before the walls to Solitude. Dyce caught Ulfric’s eye, and he nodded; right behind you. Right until the end.

Ulfric raised his axe. They waited, on his command.

“For Talos! For Skyrim!” His voice carried, and a hundred others took up the shout. Dyce loping close to his side, Ulfric led the charge up the hill, to where Solitude’s gates awaited, braced against them. 

“Left,” Ulfric said, his voice carrying low and clear below the clamour behind them. 

Dyce took a deep breath. 

_FUS RO DAH_

Dyce splintered the wooden barricades, knocking the troops behind them off their feet. Ulfric’s Voice buffeted away the first volley of arrows that arced towards them, and Dyce could hear the whistle of the return fire from the troops behind.

Galmar hadn’t been wrong about Ulfric making himself a target; the missiles were falling like rain and Dyce held his shield over his head, flinching every time another arrow thudded into it. Ulfric showed no fear, and Dyce knew he had to do the same. So he Shouted, and they ran up the slope, Galmar batting aside the Imperial soldiers who ran down to meet them.

Dyce hissed as a lucky arrow skimmed his knuckles, but he didn’t drop his blade. 

The watchtowers loomed over them. And Ulfric raised his head.

_ZUN HAAL VIIK_

“The archers are disarmed!” Dyce shouted. “Take the towers! _FUS_!” He Shouted in one of the doors, but he and Ulfric kept going; their goal was the gates, through which the Imperial troops not trapped in the watchtowers were retreating. 

“They’ll bar them before we get there!” Galmar snarled.

Dyce shook his head. “Cover me.”

“Wait!” Ulfric ordered.

_WULD NAH KEST_

Dyce didn’t wait. The world blurred and then came to a halt again, the oak and iron doors of the gates closing like jaws just ahead of him. Dyce threw his shield with all his strength into the faces of the nearest Imperial troops and drew his second blade. Without the breath yet to Shout again, he ducked and weaved, and his blades flashed.

They struck at him, and he stumbled as a mace found his hip, and he rolled and somehow no bones were broken and he found his feet and lunged and his blade skewered an eye. 

The Imperials held the gates open as the soldiers trapped between Dyce and the approaching Stormcloaks fought to get past him, but Dyce heard the frantic order to close them. It was too late for those still on the outside.

The gates creaked into place as Dyce gritted his teeth, willing the words forward. 

Maybe if he could delay it. Just one word might be enough.

_FUS_

_FUS RO DAH_ The gates blew back on their hinges, ropes snapping.

Dyce jumped as Ulfric put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to get too far out in front, my friend,” he said hoarsely. Half his face was covered in blood, and an arrow was embedded in his fur cloak. His eyes and teeth gleamed as he smiled. 

“Drop the ram! The gates are open! Forward!” 

Galmar hollered the order, and further back Yrsarald passed it on, and sky blue and steel flowed like a great flood into Solitude.

“Secure the walls! Take the keep. You! That way!” Galmar was silenced momentarily as an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He tore it away and kept going.

Dyce knew these streets. He’d stumbled and snuck and swaggered down them, but he found himself lost. Buildings were burning. Out of the smoke, Imperial troops appeared from nowhere and he swung his blades until his arms ached. His eyes stung. He swallowed a potion and that was enough to fix his limp.

He caught a glimpse of Ralof putting his sword through a window, scooping up an unfortunate dog that had been tethered outside and hauling the creature up and into safety. He heard children screaming from an upstairs window. He met an old man, trying to wield a sword; Dyce knocked it away from him and kept running.

Smoke billowed into the clear morning sky. The eagles had all fled.

“Have you seen Hadvar?” Ralof appeared out of the smoke again, supporting another Stormcloak injured in the fighting.

Dyce shook his head, but he honestly didn’t think he’d recognise him in this mess. It was enough telling friend from foe. He came across a group of Stormcloaks and beckoned them to follow him. He didn’t know where Ulfric was, but was determined to find him.

Ulfric’s Voice was a rallying point. As Ulfric fronted up to the doors to Castle Dour, his followers heard him Shout and emerged from the chaos in the streets below, bloodied, singed, and determined.

Dyce ran to Ulfric’s side, where the Stormcloak leader was pressed against a stone wall, looking up at the approach to the castle.

“Keep the troops back! They’ve got a lot of flame up there.”

As if to prove his point a volley of flaming arrows landed among them, the Stormcloaks diving for cover, and frantically trying to put out their shields where they were hit.

“That’s why half the city’s on fire,” Dyce said, crouching down next to Ulfric.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Ulfric said.

“I can try and cool them off,” Dyce said.

_STRUN BAH QO_

Above them, the blue sky was swiftly eclipsed by a roiling sea of cloud. Thunder rumbled across the city. While everyone else was staring, Dyce huddled down in his armour and braced himself. 

It did him no good when the heavens opened. Cold rain sheeted down and drenched the combatants in seconds. It hissed off the burning buildings, and rendered the cobblestones slick and treacherous. 

Ulfric grinned, “Now‘s our chance.” He raised his axe and on his signal, the Stormcloaks made a final push for Castle Dour. The courtyard was a nightmare; the rain made armour and weapons slippery, and the sound of the thunder made giving anything but the simplest of orders almost impossible. Arrows were still falling from the surrounding walls. And Dyce whimpered as one skewered his forearm. He backed away against a wall, batting at any Imperials that came close. 

His hands shaking and blood running freely down his arm he grabbed the shaft and pushed it through until the razored arrowhead was clear through the other side. Now all he had to do was snap the end off and pull it out. Piece of cake, he thought, as he blinked water out of his eyes. 

He used his injured arm to fend off attacks, although he was mostly ignored by the wall, and gripped the arrow with his other hand. Snap, he thought gritting his teeth and trying to bend it. Snap you bastard!

He looked up as someone loomed out of the melee in front of him. Ulfric took his hand and supported his wrist before snapping the end of the arrow off. With a swift movement he wrenched the broken head free, and Dyce’s jaw sagged in pain. 

Ulfric clapped him on the shoulder as Dyce knocked back a potion, “Follow me, we’re finding Tullius.”

‘We’ turned out to be Ulfric, Galmar and Dyce. The three of them stalked through the almost empty halls of Castle Dour while the sounds of battle still rang outside. They left a trail of water and blood as they kicked in doors, hunting for the besieged General.

They found him in the war room, Legate Rikke at his side. 

“Ulfric. Stop.” Legate Rikke stepped forward.

“No, Rikke, this cannot be stopped. It must not be stopped.”

“You’re wrong, Ulfric. We need the Empire. Without it Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion.”

“No one can say for certain that’s true,” Dyce spoke up, without anger. Rikke flicked her gaze at him only briefly, her attention on Ulfric.

Ulfric nodded, accepting Dyce’s contribution. “The Empire is weak, obsolete. Look at how far we've come and with so little. We will take our war to the Aldmeri Dominion."

“You’re a damn fool,” she said.

“Sometimes.”

“Stand aside, woman,” Galmar said. “We’ve come for the General.”

“He has given up.” Rikke raised her sword. “But I have not.”

“Rikke,” Ulfric gestured towards the door with his free hand. “Go. You’re free to leave.”

“I’m also free to stay and fight for what I believe in.”

“You’re also free to die for it.”

"This is what you wanted? Shield brothers and sisters killing each other? Families torn apart? This is the Skyrim you want?"

“Rikke. You don’t have to do this.” Dyce wondered if Ulfric was actually going to plead. “They don’t have her,” he said through his teeth. “They lost her. She could be alive-”

Rikke shook her head, her expression grim. “You’ve left me no choice - Talos preserve us.” She charged Ulfric, and he lifted his axe to meet her.

It was three against two, and although Rikke fought like a saber-cat, she died on the blade of Galmar’s axe as it slipped above her guard and caught her throat. When she fell, Tullius surrendered.

Galmar argued for Tullius’s head.

“He’s more use to us alive,” Dyce said. “He can order his troops to stand down; stop the fighting outside.”

Galmar growled and dragged Tullius out. 

Ulfric sheathed his axe and walked over to Rikke. Dyce watched in silence as he dropped to his knees beside her, and took one of her armoured hands between his own. He bowed his head, and water and blood dripped from his braids onto her Imperial steel armour.

“She didn’t believe me,” he whispered hoarsely. His shoulders shook.

“I’m so sorry, Ulfric.” Dyce stretched out a hand and then thought better of it. He shut the door quietly behind him as he left.


	8. Chapter 8

Dyce made his way out into the courtyard. The rain had slackened, and the clouds were starting to disperse. The walls were now ringed with Stormcloak soldiers, and the Imperial troops were being rounded up and herded into the courtyard, the pile of confiscated weapons growing as the vanquished were routed from hiding places in the city and forced out of the keep.

Galmar had Tullius on his knees and was clearly looking for an excuse to use his axe. Ralof saw Dyce emerge and moved to his side his eyes asking the unspoken question; Dyce shook his head.

Dyce watched, but half his mind was still in the castle behind him, worrying about Ulfric. He knew the man would be all right, but Dyce wanted to help, somehow. There didn’t seem to be any way right now; he needed precious moments alone to collect himself. He wouldn’t accept pity, and Dyce wasn’t sure he’d recognise sympathy.

Ralof watched the prisoners, tapping a finger nervously against his chin.

They saw him at the same time, bruised and bloody, and favouring one leg.

“Hadvar!” Dyce and Ralof chorused and others looked at them in surprise. Ralof started forward, stopped, and glanced at Dyce. Dyce nodded, giving him permission to break ranks. The Imperials stepped out of their way as they hurried towards him.

“Ralof?” Hadvar barely had time to get his name out before Ralof wrapped his arms around his neck.

“It’s alright, I forgive you,” he said.

“You again,” Hadvar stared at Dyce with an uncertain expression, things falling into place, relief.

“He looked after me,” Ralof said.

“And vice versa.” Dyce added.

“I’m glad you’re alright. Both of you.” Hadvar opened his arms and hugged them both.

“Thank Talos,” Ralof said.

The sound of a heavy door closing interrupted them. Ulfric had emerged, impassive and regal. Dyce squeezed Hadvar’s fingers and ducked out from under his arm, making his way to Ulfric’s side. Ralof stayed next to Hadvar, looking worried.

Ulfric waited until Dyce was standing beside him again before he spoke to the silent troops.

“There is no dishonour,” he began. “In fighting for a cause to which you have sworn. Sons and daughters of Skyrim who have fought for the Emperor will be welcomed home. Those who are not of Skyrim,” he glanced at Tullius, “Or who do not want to stay, will not be harmed, but will be escorted to the border. Skyrim is at peace now.”

He turned to Galmar, “Go and get Elsif. I think it’s time for a speech.” He let his decision sink in, as the Imperial troops milled about, trying to make their decisions, a good proportion of the Nords filtering away from the others.

Ralof and Hadvar stood forehead to forehead, apparently having some kind of whispered argument while victor and vanquished politely pretended they hadn’t noticed.

“Well done, Dragonborn.” Yrsarald stretched his hand out and Dyce took it, walking past him and slapping him on the shoulder. The celebrations hadn’t started in earnest yet; there was still Elsif to think of, but cautious smiles were starting to show on people’s faces, and Dyce wandered among them, being thanked and praised.

And all the while working his way towards the exit.

He pulled his hood up over his head and slipped away. The clouds were breaking up and the first shafts of sunlight were bravely stabbing through. Puddles still shone like silver on the cobblestones, and smoke rose from the smouldering houses.

Dyce hurried through a city emerging from hiding. Cautiously people opened doors and windows and stuck their heads out, calling to each other for news, and surveying the damage.

Dyce did not wear Stormcloak colours, and he was stopped and asked for news. He told them that the war was over. He didn’t quite believe it. The Skyrim he knew had always been at war with itself; had it really ended, just like that?

Of course, it wasn’t just like that. He paused at the city gates, one half twisted slightly by the force of his and Ulfric’s combined shouts.

A beggar hobbled up to him, and Dyce automatically reached for a coin.

“They say there was a dragon,” the old man said meditatively, accepting the coin as if it was his due. “There weren’t no dragon; I saw the whole thing. Just men.” He sniffed, “Dragon sounds better though.”

Dyce shrugged, “I think it’s better without a dragon.” 

He could just leap on a horse and go. The stables were unguarded. He didn’t. He walked past them and down to the harbour instead. There were a few Solitude guards standing around rather self-consciously guarding the Empire’s shipping. None of them bothered him.

There was a large board sheltered from the rain upon which the shipping was written in chalk. Dyce read the names and looked out over the harbour, matching the ships to their information.

_The Lazy Watchman_ taking furs to Hammerfell.

_Glorialis_ with mead and weapons for Cyrodil.

_The Far Star_ with ironwear and cloth for Elsweyr.

_Bronzemaiden II_ horker hunting out to sea.

The clouds broke further, the sun glittered off the harbour, and the sea eagles returned to fill the air with their cries. Dyce watched them circle and then plummet down to the water to snatch fish.

Like he had as a boy, he scrounged the docks for food and ate with his feet dangling over the water, and his arms on the guide rope. He dropped his apple cores and bread crusts in the water and watched the fish swim up out of the murky depths to nibble at them. He listened to the ships’ bells ringing as they rose and fell on the tide. He had to get away from it all; from kings and battles and heroes. He hummed to himself and stole chalk and drew rude pictures on the wooden planking.

He stretched out on a rock like a lizard in the sun with his hands behind his head, feeling like he did when he snuck out on lessons at the temple; pleased with himself and yet slightly guilty - what if they were teaching something that _wasn’t_ boring? What if Ulfric needed him?

He wouldn’t. This was politics. Ulfric could do it in his sleep, Dyce was sure. He’d be king, and Dyce could be a lazy thief again. It was a comforting thought that settled around him like his fur cloak, and he huddled down into it and closed his eyes.

“Waiting for your ship to come in?”

Dyce didn’t have to open his eyes; that voice was unmistakable. He smiled instead. “Maybe. What are you doing here, Jarl Ulfric?”

“Looking for you. Well, others looked.” A shadow blocked the afternoon sun on Dyce’s face and he opened his eyes, blinking at the brightness. He’d half expected Ulfric to be wearing the crown, but he looked as he always did; he’d washed off the blood.

Halfway up the steps to the stables, a handful of Stormcloak soldiers waited politely.

“Personal guard?” Dyce asked glancing at them and then back at Ulfric.

He nodded. “It’s not a city to take chances in. Such as lying around on an exposed rock sleeping like a Khajiit in the sun.”

“What do you know about Khajiit?” Dyce said, sitting up and yawning. He stood up and leaped back onto the wooden dock, narrowing his eyes against the afternoon sun.

“You can’t just disappear like that,” Ulfric said.

Dyce raised his eyebrows. “Can’t I?”

“Well you shouldn’t have. I didn’t give you permission; you didn’t even ask for it.”

Dyce got the impression that Ulfric was relieved to have found him. “I didn’t really go far. I just needed to go for a while.”

“Yes, I know you, Dyce.” Ulfric said. “But we are not yet done. People died, and they must be honoured.”

Dyce stared at him. “I...oh. Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”

Ulfric held up his hand. “You didn’t go far,” he muttered and turned away.

“The Legate-”

“Later, Dyce.” He let him see his eyes, and Dyce quailed before the self-control that he displayed. It was all that was holding him together. “Please.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

Dyce followed him back up the slope to the city, joining his personal guard without a word. When they returned to the city, the streets were full. Ulfric’s guard were wary, and Dyce realised he had probably overridden a lot of advice to go down to the docks and seek him out himself.

Ulfric was impassive now, regarding the citizens celebrating and the citizens weeping with equal detachment. Dyce could feel a party brewing; the kind of party only Nords could throw, the kind that only happened after a great many people died.

His time at the docks had given him a measure of calm, and he felt apart from it all.

“Where are we going?” Dyce asked eventually.

“The Hall of the Dead.”

“How many did we lose?” Dyce asked.

“Their casualties were worse than ours, but so far seventy-eight Stormcloaks will see Sovngarde tonight. There are others wounded that the healers may not be able to save. They will all be sent home to their families.” He was silent for a while and they walked on. “Rikke was from Dragons Bridge, but she had no family. None that-” He lifted his head and walked on, barely breaking stride.

They’d laid her out in the Hall of the Dead, her sword and shield on her breast.

Dyce and the other guards waited by the entrance, the priest bowing before Ulfric as he stepped away from them.

The guards looked away, leaving their king-to-be with his grief, but Dyce couldn’t. Seventy-eight. Ulfric had gone to look for him before coming here.

His boots made no sound on the floor. The guards wouldn’t notice he’d gone. The priest, his eyes closed and head bowed in prayer, saw nothing. Ulfric turned his head slightly when Dyce touched his hand. It must have been the right thing to do, because Ulfric didn’t pull away. Not for some time.

Dyce couldn’t hear much of what he said; Ulfric barely spoke over a whisper. He tried not to hear as he knew it wasn’t for his ears. One phrase was repeated many times; I’m sorry. Dyce thought it oddly impolite to cry over someone he barely knew so he did his best not to.

Dyce heard footsteps first, and he was gone, back at his post, by the time Galmar found Ulfric. They were expected at the palace.

~~~  
Elisif was polite and brittle. People kept asking Dyce questions he had no idea how to answer. Eventually Dyce was obliged to clear a space for himself by snapping and snarling and being rude, and he waited for Ulfric to join him in it, arms folded, watching the city below through one of the windows, hearing bits of songs before the wind whistling past snatched them away from his ears. 

When Ulfric joined him they stood in silence. Moment to moment, the silence suited them both well enough, but it could not sustain them and the weight of all they shared. It was time enough, however, to work out what to say.

“You need to ask for things more directly,” Dyce said finally. He gave a helpless shrug, “You hide so much; I can’t read your mind. I can’t tell what you want from me.”

When he didn’t get a response after a few moments he looked at Ulfric. He’d never seen him look so lost before, his hands at his sides, his head slightly turned away.

“Please don’t go,” Ulfric said. “I don’t want to lose you as well.”

“Jarl Ulfric.” Dyce for once wasn’t sure what to say. He stepped closer, Ulfric raising his head again to meet his gaze. He looked brave, and Dyce supposed he was; for him to ask for something was for him to admit he lacked something. Dyce wanted him to know he was safe, that he could trust him. “You won’t lose me.” He smiled, “I have a hard time staying away from people who want me around.”

“I’d noticed,” Ulfric said, probably more harshly than he intended.

Dyce shrugged, “That’s the way I am.” He looked up at him, unapologetic. 

“What about the way I am? What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see you,” Dyce said softly. 

“A king?”

“Sometimes.“ He reached up and put a hand on Ulfric’s shoulder. “It’s fine. All of it. I swear.”

It really was, of this Dyce was convinced, as Ulfric ducked his head an inch or two lower and kissed him.

He smelled of war. Of smoke and sweat and blood. Dyce wrapped his arms around him and curled his fingers in the fur on Ulfric’s armour, feeling every belt buckle and steel plate pressed against his body as Ulfric did the same, but harder. Dyce could feel the warrior’s strength in his arms as he pulled pulled him close. It was a pointless gesture; Dyce was where he wanted to be, and if he wanted to be elsewhere, he’d be there. 

But Dyce had been chewed by almost every kind of wild animal in Skyrim, and he could withstand the bruising embrace of her king-to-be easily. It was enough to be able to breathe.

Ulfric’s braid brushed against Dyce’s cheek, and his beard rasped on Dyce’s stubble. He kissed his lips first, refusing to be distracted by the way Dyce licked and worried at his mouth. At your own pace then, Dyce thought. But Ulfric was not slow; he was thorough, like someone banking a fire to last the entire night. 

And there was no doubt what started here would last well into the night. Dyce could taste it, and he could feel it in the way Ulfric’s hands moved, tracing muscles beneath his leather rather than the lines of the armour itself. The way he shifted his feet, opening himself up slightly. The way his breath stopped and started with Dyce’s smile. 

His tongue curled like smoke in Dyce’s mouth and Dyce pulled his head back slightly, just enough that Ulfric chased, kissed him deeper and then Dyce pushed back again, sweet and hungry and just a bit of teeth, because Ulfric liked that; he could tell. When he bit back Ulfric’s fingers dug into his leather, making it creak slightly, and somewhere beneath those furs, in that throat that could shatter bones and break down the walls of cities, something caught. Something small and needy and something only Dyce could hear.

Something he tried to coax out with his tongue and his lips and it was so elusive. He could chase it down for hours.

When they broke apart, just far enough to look into each other’s eyes, Ulfric looked stunned, like a man awakening from a dream. Dyce saw up close for the first time the scars on Ulfric’s face. He’d taken them to be wrinkles at first, and indeed Ulfric looked his age, but beneath them were such fine pale lines, perfectly healed, but so straight, so many of them. So many they almost disappeared.

Dyce wondered how long that kiss had been waiting, and how many people he’d thought to give it to before thinking better of doing so. It felt like years had gone into it, the intensity made his heart ache, and it boded oh so well for the rest of the evening; his heart wasn’t all that was aching.

Anticipation made him tilt his head, baring his throat slightly as Ulfric bent his head again, this time to Dyce’s ear. “Do you,” he rumbled, his low and urgent with desire. “Have somewhere else to be tonight?”

Dyce smiled. “No, Jarl Ulfric. Nowhere at all.”

Ulfric took a deep breath and released him.

They walked in silence through the palace. The place was oddly deserted; anyone not required to stay had left to join the celebrations down in the city. Only the guards and Elisif’s closest servants remained, and they were silent. The servants seemed frankly terrified of them both, and Dyce supposed they had good reason. He and Ulfric were invaders, after all, and only time would convince the people of Solitude that Ulfric bore them no ill-will.

He followed Ulfric back to what looked like guest quarters. It was all very fancy and, he noticed, a lot less dusty than the Palace of the Kings. He didn’t care though. His blood was on fire, and he would have been willing to go back to Ulfric’s tent at the camp outside the city, or even the nearest dark corner. He suspected Ulfric felt similarly. He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t take a single step longer than he had to.

He looked focused.

He opened the heavy oaken door and waved Dyce inside. Dyce only got a few moments to appreciate the thick carpets and the silverware on the sideboard and the size of the bed in the center of the room, and to wonder what valuables might be forgotten in the chest in the corner before Ulfric shut the door behind them and swept him up against it.

The door clunked against its hinges as Dyce’s back hit the varnished surface, Ulfric’s bulk pinning the smaller man. When he opened his mouth gasp in surprise Ulfric invaded it, his fingers in Dyce’s hair, down his cheek, fumbling at his armour. Dyce kissed him back, angling a hip forward, pressing back against the Nord. Ulfric grunted and made a fist next to Dyce’s head.

Dyce worked his hands between them, finding Ulfric’s belt and undoing it, sneaking his fingers into Ulfric’s armour, seeking skin, not yet another layer of cloth. Eventually a button somewhere popped and Dyce slipped a hand inside, pressing his palm to Ulfric’s flank, his fingers cool compared to the Ulfric’s skin.

“Oh Gods,’ Ulfric groaned against his mouth. And he’d merely touched him. Dyce tried to wiggle his hand in further, feeling fine hairs under his fingers, and a heartbeat through his palm. 

Ulfric slid his hand down Dyce’s leather-clad chest and stomach, and let it rest at his hip. Dyce watched, curious, as Ulfric swallowed hard and brushed his hand across the taut bulge in Dyce’s trousers. He was about to ask if Ulfric had been with many men before when Ulfric seized the back of his head and Dyce was getting used to the way he kissed; like he wanted to drown.

His other hand was at Dyce’s belt and Dyce could feel him struggling to undo a purely decorative buckle and he grinned, happy to help, slipping his hand out from the warmth of the Jarl’s clothing and undoing his own belts, his sheathed blades dropping off his hips to the floor with a thump only slightly muffled by the rug. He’d managed to undo two of the buttons on his fly when Ulfric batted his hands away, and thrust his own down the front of Dyce’s trousers. 

Dyce made an ‘ngh’ sound against Ulfric’s lips and rolled his hips forward, pressing his cock up into Ulfric’s calloused palm. There was barely room for him to move in there. He could fit just enough of his hand down to curl his fingers at the base of Dyce’s cock. Dyce wriggled himself up against Ulfric and the door, working his trousers down from around his hips - Ulfric had pushed his hands away, after all, and if that was distracting, so be it. 

Dyce used his hands to comb through Ulfric’s hair instead, and to start opening his collar, looking for the catches on his armour.

He forgot about this when Ulfric started to stroke him. The Nord lifted his head from Dyce’s lips to look into his face, watching what his hand was doing to him. Dyce wasn’t shy; he was happy to show Ulfric the heartbeat in his neck and have him hear the way his breath stuttered irregularly from bitten, reddened lips. He could only guess what Ulfric was reading from his eyes but it must have been too much for him because he bent his head forward to rasp in Dyce’s ear.

“Now who’s fucking gorgeous?”

Dyce grinned widely, delighted that Ulfric had remembered. He remembered too, and the contrast between Ulfric then, dragonslayer triumphant, and the gasping, unravelling mortal man at his side, with his lips and teeth on his neck and his hand around his cock was almost too much for him. 

Dyce pulled at Ulfric’s hair, arching himself off the door and against him, butting the head of his cock against Ulfric’s palm, the skin wet and slick.

“J-Jarl Ulfric.” It wouldn’t take him long now.

Ulfric’s hand stilled. He raised his head to look Dyce in the eye again.

Dyce smirked, still panting. “You prefer ‘king’?” he asked.

Ulfric frowned, and seemed almost puzzled when he shook his head. “No, no titles here.”

As much as he was frustrated by the delay, Dyce was also pleased. He smiled, “Ulfric.”

Ulfric eased his hand from Dyce’s trousers and pulled him towards the bed. 

“Hang on,” Dyce said. “I need to get my boots off.” With his trousers halfway down his thighs he was obliged to lean against the door to take off his boots while Ulfric sat on the edge of the bed and did the same. 

Dyce heard Ulfric’s chestpiece hit the floor, but when he wandered over to the bed, Ulfric hadn’t managed to get much further. Dyce had shed everything, and Ulfric was staring at him with an expression that made his cock, still at half-mast, twitch upwards.

Ulfric didn’t miss _that_ either. 

Dyce grinned, happy to be admired, and walked over to sit astride Ulfric’s lap. It was a shame Ulfric was still wearing his pants, but Dyce could see there was plenty to appreciate pressing up against the dark cloth. Something to look forward to.

Dyce tugged at Ulfric’s undershirt and Ulfric lifted his arms and let Dyce pull it off him. Dyce had been anticipating the greying blonde hair on his chest and stomach, the broad shoulders and chest, the battle scars. It was the other scars that he hadn’t expected.

He glanced up quickly into Ulfric’s eyes. Ulfric was just watching him, not ashamed or upset, or even braced for rejection, just calm and mildly curious. Dyce, for his part, was mildly heartbroken. He placed his palms on Ulfric’s shoulders and slid them down his chest. The wounds had been healed so well, his skin felt smooth.

Dyce couldn’t understand what had been done to Ulfric. A lifetime of fighting had left him with no points of reference that might explain a scar like a snail’s shell, or what might leave a dozen deep, tiny dots. He ran his fingers lightly over Ulfric’s skin.

“It healed,” he said, more to reassure himself than for Ulfric’s edification.

“Elenwen was the best healer I’ve ever seen.” Ulfric sighed, and squinted slightly, looking back into the past. “She could practically bring a man back from the dead. She could probably do that too. She could tell.” His voice grew less certain, and Dyce realised that this was the part he didn’t share. “She could tell when a man had given up and had started willing himself to die. Then she’d stop, and start healing.”

Ulfric looked up at Dyce and returned to the present. He looked guilty when he saw the expression on Dyce’s face, and Dyce refused to let him feel worse. But he couldn’t turn off his own emotions so he sat up slightly and wrapped his arms around Ulfric, pressing his lips to his forehead. Ulfric let him, idly stroking his back.

Eventually Dyce’s legs got tired and he sat back on Uflric’s lap.

Ulfric smiled faintly, indulgently. “You have a big heart,” he said. “I should call you Mountain-Heart.”

Dyce raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He thought for a moment, and smiled mischievously. “You have a big cock. I should call you Stormcock.” He managed a few seconds of gleaming-eyed delighted silence before the look on Ulfric’s face was too much and he broke down and started laughing.

“Irreverent,” Ulfric growled.

“What should I do instead then? Get on my knees?”

“Maybe you should.” Ulfric wrapped his arms around him, lifted him off his lap and tossed him sideways onto the bed. Dyce obligingly crawled off him so he could take off the rest of his clothes.

The unscheduled trip into Ulfric’s past had left them both soft, but Ulfric was still quite impressive and Dyce snuck glances at him while he pulled back the covers and sprawled back on the bed. They had very fancy sheets here and he wriggled back into them and beckoned Ulfric over.

Ulfric obliged.

He loomed over Dyce, braced up on his arms while Dyce grinned up at him and stroked his sides and stretched a hand down to weigh his thickening cock in his hand. Ulfric ducked his head and nipped at Dyce’s ear.

“Hm, I’d get on my knees for that,” Dyce purred. He felt Ulfric twitch in his hand at his words. He released Ulfric’s cock and pulled himself up to kiss him, and Ulfric let his arms bend and the Nord collapsed down onto him, a warm, hard weight.

Dyce hummed against Ulfric’s mouth, and rocked his hips slightly. They stayed like that for a while, their kisses getting greedier and more desperate. Dyce was hard against Ulfric’s stomach and Ulfric was pressed against Dyce’s leg. Eventually Ulfric flung himself off Dyce with a groan.

“On your knees,” he ordered in a hoarse voice. 

Dyce rolled over and fished around over the edge of the bed for his armour. Ulfric looked impatient until Dyce returned with the bottle of oil.

“Oh.”

He’s really not used to men, Dyce thought, but he kept it to himself. He sat down in front of Ulfric, and very deliberately leaned forward and took just the head of his cock in his mouth, tonguing the slit and lapping at the moisture, sucking gently at his foreskin.

Ulfric gasped and Dyce felt Ulfric’s hand resting on the back of his head. When Dyce lifted his head, licking his lips, he half expected Ulfric would push him right back down again, but he didn’t.

He indicated the bottle lying on the bed near Dyce’s leg. “Should I?”

Dyce shook his head, “Oh no. This will be my pleasure.”

And indeed it was, although given the way Ulfric half-closed his eyes, and the way he breathed, the pleasure wasn’t all Dyce’s. Dyce didn’t believe in perfection; there was too great a variety of wonderful out there, but he had to admit Ulfric had a cock fit for a king. Just the right amount of bend, smooth, supple skin with absolutely unyielding heat beneath it.

Dyce knew that the oil wasn’t particularly pleasant to eat, but it took some willpower not to bend his head and lick it off anyway, following his fingers as they lingered on Ulfric’s skin.

“Isn’t that enough?” Ulfric asked. Dyce noticed his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

He smirked. “Maybe I’m getting you back for earlier,” he said. “Getting me all worked up against the door and then just wandering off.”

“Then it’s enough,” he said roughly. “On your knees.” He grabbed Dyce under his arms and hauled him up, finally out of patience.

“All right, all right.” Dyce hurriedly applied some oil to himself and re-stoppered the bottle.

Dyce normally preferred to watch his lovers, but Ulfric seemed very keen on him having his arse in the air, and Dyce was more than ready to take that gorgeous cock any way Ulfric wanted to give it.

He braced himself and concentrated on relaxing as he felt Ulfric’s warmth and weight move over him. He knew how impatient Ulfric was, he saw and felt how much he’d been holding himself back while Dyce had slowly applied the oil, but even now, even with Dyce braced and waiting for his cock beneath him, Ulfric was careful.

He eased himself in, inch by inch, letting Dyce gasp and shudder and relax each time he moved. When Ulfric finally stopped, when there was no more of him to give, Dyce felt Ulfric’s hand move from Dyce’s hip up to his chest, so one arm was wrapped around him. His fingers rubbed the hairs on Dyce’s chest and Dyce could feel his breath on the back of his neck and his beard against his back as Ulfric kissed him.

And then he started moving. He must have finally reached the end of his reserves of patience. He didn’t appear to realise it, but he fucked _hard_. Dyce gasped in surprise and Ulfric's weight and strength nearly sent him into the headboard. And again.

Dyce gave up trying to match Ulfric’s strength; it was impossible from this position. It was all he could do to flatten himself against the mattress and take Ulfric’s weight. And once he’d given up trying to push back, he realised he’d given up control of his voice as well, as every time Ulfric thrust against him, a wordless exclamation was wrung from his throat.

Ulfric was no better. His breath was raw and rasping in Dyce’s ear, and he gasped and growled and failed to grit his teeth against his own sounds.

Ulfric’s cock filled him over and over, and each time his own was thrust against the bed. He wasn’t going to last long, but the way Ulfric moved and shuddered suggested he wasn’t far behind. He bucked and gasped and managed Ulfric’s name, just, and Ulfric’s arm was like an iron bar around his chest as he came hard, tensing around the Nord’s cock.

“Gods,” Ulfric groaned and Dyce felt him swell and thrust once more, twice and he released himself. Dyce could feel him coming, hot, for heartbeats. 

They lay there, immobile for a few minutes, recovering. Eventually Ulfric extracted himself and rolled off the Breton and Dyce realised how much lung capacity he’d been missing with the weight off his back. 

They’d made a mess. Dyce felt boneless as he slid over to the edge of the bed to find something to clean up with. Ulfric lay on his side and watched him. Dyce smiled at him, pleased and sated. He clawed the blankets back up from where they’d fallen off the end of the bed and despite the wet patch he lay down right next to Ulfric.

“That was fun,” Dyce said.

“Thank you.”

Dyce reached out and stroked Ulfric’s chest. Ulfric put an arm around him and pulled him in a bit closer. Dyce moved down until his head fit under Ulfric’s chin. They moved around, getting comfortable and silence descended for a while.

“We could do this again,” Ulfric said gravely.

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

“Goodnight, Ulfric.”

“Goodnight, Dyce.”


	9. Chapter 9

Ulfric was woken, like he usually was, by the need to relieve himself. The cries of sea eagles circling outside his window, however, were new. He felt warm and sated and he started his morning ritual of cataloguing everything that had been done, and everything that needed doing. The war was over. He’d won. He was going to be king. Skyrim was going to be his. He had to organise which troops to leave in Solitude. His chain of thought was completely snapped as he remembered something else.

He had a lover. A flighty and unpredictable one with a habit of disappearing and falling into bed with other people.

This last thought startled him into action and he rolled over, half expecting the rest of the bed to be empty. It wasn’t. Dyce was sleeping on his stomach, his red hair half pulled free of his ponytail and spread across the pillow in a tangled mess.

Ulfric moved closer, watching him sleep and resisting the urge to stroke his cheek, or his hair, or the hand that was the only other part of him not covered by blankets. Eventually nature’s call grew too urgent and he slipped out from between the covers. 

When he returned Dyce was still asleep. “Bloody little thief,” he murmured. When he’d disappeared the day before, he’d left Ulfric with what felt like a gaping hole in his chest. Just waltzed right off with his heart along with half a dozen other things he was sure Dyce hadn’t noticed he’d missed from his palace.

He couldn’t hold it against him. He didn’t seem to do it deliberately.

Despite it going against years of habit, he climbed back into bed. The movement must have woken Dyce up, for he cracked open a blue eye and spent a few moments focusing it.

“Hmm.” He reached out and patted Ulfric reassuringly on his bare chest and then rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes.

“Good morning,” Ulfric said.

“Yep,” Dyce agreed, feeling the mess of hair on his head and sitting up to comb out the loop of linen that usually held it back but was right now doing nothing useful at all.

Ulfric lay back on his pillow and enjoyed watching him, the way he moved, the way the indirect sunlight reflecting off the floor made his skin glow. A lover fit for a king indeed, but he was more than that. Dragonborn. General Stormblade. Mostly just him. Mostly because when he looked at Ulfric, Ulfric felt like a person.

It had been so long since he’d seen someone else just being there. Dyce rubbed his stubble and blinked when he looked out the window and yawned. It was fascinating. Dyce watched him too; he admired him with a series of quick, amused little glances. Ulfric could almost feel his gaze like a caress across his shoulders and chest, and he was well aware of Dyce’s opinion on other aspects of his physique. It was a little unnerving, to be the recipient of such gleefully lustful attention, but it was also pleasing as well. Despite the adventures of the night before, he wasn’t quite flaccid.

“I could marry you, you know,” Ulfric said thoughtfully.

Dyce stopped wrestling with the knots in his hair and shot him a dubious look. “You could try,” he retorted.

“Politically advantageous.” He smiled, “Certainly a lot of fun.”

“You don’t need to marry someone to have fun. Case in point; this right here. Also.” Dyce pulled his hair back and retied it before turning to face Ulfric, “If you mention the word ‘politically’ while I’m naked, I’m not going to be naked in future. Not where you can see, anyway.”

“All right, all right. You’ve made your point.” For now, at least. This was how it was going to be, he realised, and as much as part of him still wanted to chain Dyce to the bedpost, he accepted that he simply couldn’t.

He’d have to trust that Dyce had been honest when he said he couldn’t stay away from people who wanted him around. Dyce was always honest. He’d come back. It would have to be enough until Ulfric worked out a way to convince him to stay.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Dyce looked worried and uncertain. “The war.”

“Yes, the civil war is over. In a few months the Moot will meet and they will make me High King.” Dyce actually had the cheek to look sorry for him, and Ulfric frowned. Certainly there were some things that weren’t going to be pleasant, but he’d known that he was destined for this since he’d been a boy. 

“I suppose there’ll be a great party, at least,” Dyce said. 

Ulfric sighed, “Yes, you look on the bright side for me.”

Dyce grinned at him, “Sarcasm suits you, you know.”

“It’s a bad habit,” Ulfric said, and he sensed with Dyce around he’d have to be on his guard against bad habits. Habits like sitting around in bed all morning.

He reached out for him and Dyce smiled and closed the gap, shuffling over to his side of the bed and pressing up against his side. Forget sitting around in bed all morning; he could stay here for a week, he realised.

Ulfric sighed and looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Would you do something for me?” he asked.

“Hm. Probably. Unless you want me to lead another army.”

Ulfric shook his head. “Not this time.”

Dyce didn’t reply, he just buried his face in Ulfric’s shoulder. Ulfric lifted a hand and stroked his hair. “I won’t ask you to do anything you can’t do. I’ll be your king, when you need me to.”

“The Thalmor were the reason I fought this war,” Dyce said, his breath hot against Ulfric’s skin. “But-”

“No one knows what war means until they fight. It’s a hard lesson to learn.” He’d been so young, and looking back, so stupid. “Right now I want you to do something that suits your talents better. And it’s important to me.” Dyce looked up, interested, and Ulfric found it hard to speak. “Find her. Find my daughter. I know you could, if you put your mind to it.”

Dyce looked utterly surprised. “Maybe I could. But why me? Don’t you want to do it?”

“I do, but.” He sighed. “When you find her I want you to talk to her. Find out if she’s happy. Find out if she’d be better off not knowing me. If her birthright would be too much of a burden for her, I would see her spared. Like Rikke wanted her to be.” Maybe it was a bad decision, but he knew he had the option of changing his mind later if he had to.

Dyce was staring at him, “You’d trust me to do that? To make that decision for you?”

“I honestly can’t think of anyone I’d trust to do it better.” He looked into Dyce’s eyes, so full of concern for almost everyone he met. “You know people, Dyce. Better than they know themselves probably.”

Dyce shifted, put his hands behind his head and lay back against the pillow. “All right, if you put it like that. I’ll do it.”

“And don’t lay a finger on her, you understand? Promise me.”

“Yes, I promise. I guess I’ll start in Markarth; if I had to hide a baby, I’d give it to the Temple of Dibella - oh, Divines, what if she’s a priestess? I’m regretting this promise already.” He groaned.

“Not a hair on her head!”

“Yes, I know,” he laughed.

“It would be inappropriate, especially if you’re going to be her stepfather.”

“Will you give that a rest already?” He rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do if she does want to meet you?”

“She’s my heir. She’ll live in the Palace of Kings and will start learning the arts of war and statecraft as befits a Jarl’s daughter.”

Dyce sat up and looked at him, “Are you seriously expecting a young woman to live in the Palace of the Kings?”

“Why not? Where else would she live?”

“Ulfric, you have one elderly chef. And his food is fine, but the dust is ankle deep in some of the corners. You need to clean the place up first. Hire some servants.”

“Its a bit short notice, don’t you think?”

“I hear there are plenty of underemployed Argonians working at the docks.”

So that was his plan. “Dyce,” Ulfric began.

“Who’s in charge of Windhelm again?” he asked innocently.

Insolent little Breton. You couldn’t help but smile.

“We’ll see,” Ulfric said, and Dyce appeared satisfied.

Ulfric was satisfied too. He knew that for as long as he felt he could help, Dyce would attempt to do so. He’d always come back.

As much as he wanted to stay in bed, they both had many things to do. Dyce took Ulfric’s request seriously, as he knew he would. He left as soon as he’d put his clothes on and stolen breakfast from the palace kitchen.

Galmar had sent some troops to the Thalmor Embassy but no one was surprised when they returned to report the place was empty. For a few short months Skyrim would lack a king, and therefore they had a legitimate excuse to avoid any diplomatic relations with the Thalmor. That time was not to be wasted.

Ulfric returned to Windhelm. He couldn’t stand his army down, not with the Thalmor on the horizon, but he had to dissolve the split between the Stormcloaks and those who’d fought for the empire as fast as possible. The country needed rebuilding. Solitude especially needed funds to repair the damage that had been done during the battle.

Elisif made it clear that she loathed him personally but a diplomatic marriage would not be off the cards. Ulfric responded with similar sentiments to keep her hoping and politically pliant, but he had no intention of following through. A Dragonborn consort he could trust would be far more useful than a queen he couldn’t, especially in times of war. 

Thalmor missives were replied to with a polite ‘wait and see’ but Ulfric wasted no time getting in contact with the independant Hammerfell, a natural ally as he saw it, and even the Empire. Skyrim had to prove she was a country worthy of the title, and not just a few Nords throwing a fit about some obscure religious matter.

The war was over; trade could resume, and indeed, increase. They would need wealth and a lot of it to fund the coming war. But he couldn’t stir the country too fast; she needed to rest first, to heal. So while the ordinary folk saw little change, Ulfric worked his fingers to the bone and talked until he was hoarse. Every night he slept the deep sleep of the truly exhausted, and every morning he wondered where Dyce was.

A few weeks later he received a message by courier:

_She’s not in Markarth._

_-Dyce_

Ulfric decided that on the whole that was good news. He had beseeched Talos a countless number of times over the years to protect her, and he prayed again that Dyce might find her safe.

~~~

The Argonians worked hard. They tended to sluice down the tiles with water when a simple sweeping out probably would have sufficed, but Ulfric was starting to get used to the strange way they looked and moved even if he didn’t find them aesthetically pleasing. And they gave him no cause to complain. 

He’d changed the rules so that Argonians could be allowed inside the city walls for the purposes of gainful employment, and he gave it another two weeks before the local shop owners got sick of watching them walk out every evening with their wages in their pockets and petitioned him to let them stay in the city long enough to spend some money.

It was one of Windhelm’s rare clear days, where the fallen snow reflected the sun so brightly it made your eyes water. Ulfric and Jorlief were going through the latest letters from the Jarls when the doors to the great hall were flung open.

Ulfric’s heart leaped when Dyce strolled in, as if he’d only been gone a few hours rather than weeks. Ulfric waved Jorlief away, his eyes never leaving Dyce’s face. He looked windburnt and happy; his cloak and boots dusty.

“Well?” Ulfric asked. 

Dyce perched on an armrest of Ulfric’s throne, and leaned in to talk into his ear.

“She has her mother’s eyes,” he said, and smiled. “And her father’s ambition. If I hadn’t shown up, she would have owned half the trade routes in Skyrim in ten years. And have Maven looking over her shoulder in fifteen. I foresee a lot of arguments about Khajiit, and if you try and involve me I’m going to take her side.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“I told her you’d need a few minutes to get ready.”

“She’s _here_?”

“Wild horses couldn’t have kept her away.”

Ulfric’s heart was pounding. He stood up, and took a shaky breath. “They must have given her a new name. What’s my daughter’s name?”

“Ysolda,” Dyce said.

“Ysolda, Ysolda.” He tested it.

“I want a reward,” Dyce said abruptly.

“What? Yes, whatever you like, within reason.” 

Ulfric was startled out of his confusion by Dyce taking his hand. He looked into eyes that were so happy for him. “I want to introduce you,” he said.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Dyce led him towards the sunlight. The snow was so dazzling, it made his eyes water.


End file.
